


A Court of Exile and Reclamation

by itsalwaystheapocalypse



Series: ACOTAR Series [2]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Amarantha is a ghost, Angst, Angst and Humor, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Multi, Nightmares, POV Cassian (ACoTaR), POV Rhysand (ACoTaR), POV Tamlin (ACoTaR), Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sequel, cassian and azriel are the best, eris is not what he seems, rhysand helps, tamlin gets to be badass later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2020-05-14 03:18:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 171,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19264846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsalwaystheapocalypse/pseuds/itsalwaystheapocalypse
Summary: Sequel to fic "A Court of Lies and Resurrection". Rhys and Tamlin struggle with the lasting effects of captivity and try to heal after Amarantha's death, but with her gone, they discover they are the target of a plot that has deeper roots than they could have imagined. Meanwhile, Cassian is punished for the events of ACOLAR with exile - and Azriel chooses to go with him. They find themselves trapped in a land they don't understand, working for someone who may just be trying to get back home - or who may have something much darker in mind.Updates Weekly





	1. That's Not Tea, Rhys

**[To read the first story in this series, click here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18514993/chapters/43879957) **

He was having a nightmare again.

 _“Ssshhhh,” The mad queen whispered, pressing her finger to his lips. Tamlin couldn’t help the cry of disbelief, couldn’t stop himself from yanking against the chains that bound him once again to the iron bar over the headboard. “You didn’t really think I would die that easily, did you?”_ ****  
** **

_“No,” He said, hearing the weakness in his voice. The cuffs were too tight, they were biting into his skin, making it bleed. He’d bled, in Velaris, had bled so much, so much- “No, you’re dead, Rhys killed you, you’re not-”_

She’s not here.

_“Oh, but I am here,” She whispered, as though he had spoken the words aloud. Her hair tumbled around her head in a mass of red, a brilliant, intense color that it hadn’t truly been in life. She wore a green dress, and there was a growing stain over her chest where her heart should be, red around the edges but a void of black in the center. She laughed, and as she laughed the stain grew larger. She settled herself on top of him, sitting her weight on his hips. “How could I die? What a silly dream you had, my love. Was your vengeance worth it?”_

_Those eyes with their pinprick pupils were focused entirely on him, drinking in his terror like fine wine.She ran a hand down his face, fingers trailing along the side of his neck down over his chest, until she rested her palm against his abdomen, just above one hip, letting her fingernails scratch, just a little._

Tam, wake up.

_Her other hand grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head back into the back of the bed. Dizzy, he went limp, groaning at pain he didn’t quite feel but knew he should, somehow. Her room wasn’t right. It wasn’t the same. He couldn’t figure out what was wrong until he realized there was no starlight veil, the bed itself was smaller._

_It wasn’t her room at all. It was his. With the silver cuffs fixed to the iron bar above his bed._

_“Y-you can’t be here.” He tried desperately to shift into the beast, but nothing happened, and he could feel the wispy threads of her magic netting him in again. “You can’t be here! You never came here! I-I… I-”_

_“I can haunt you anywhere I like,” She said in a low voice. “You belong to me, after all. You really thought it would be that easy, didn’t you? That I would die and you could go back to your life as though I never entered it.”_

_“I don’t… I don’t. I- where’s Rhys?”_

_Amarantha chuckled. “He saw what’s inside your head and cut his losses.” She tsked, softly. “Do you even know how dark your thoughts really are?” She kissed him, and he couldn’t seem to find the energy to fight her. “I don’t blame him for leaving. What a fucking mess in there. Can you imagine how much darker it would be if we’d had more time, my love?”_

Damn it, quit listening to her. You know better. You know what you are to me. Wake up.

_Rhys’s voice was so far away, rattled around inside of him as though they were shouting at each other across a canyon. He was alone down here. She wasn’t dead (but she was, wasn’t she, her heart was gone, her heart had been thrown into a fire, he and Rhys had watched it burn to make sure they could never bring her back) and he was alone, alone under her hands, under her-_

Wake up, Tamlin!

_“You’re going to enjoy this,” She said softly. She began to cut into his face, reopening wounds that had only just begun to heal. The pain blossomed bit by bit across his face everywhere the knife went, the feeling of his skin fighting the ash, unable to heal, underlaid by a pleasure he hated, that he couldn’t help but feel. He hissed against the pain, knowing his teeth would only stay gritted for so long._

_Eventually, just like the first time, he would start to make sounds. Most of them would be from pain, but not all. He’d be dragged in front of the other High Lords and they’d see. They’d see how much he enjoyed it, how much he deserved to be hurt. Lucien would see what was inside his head and leave. Rhys would see what was inside his head-_

Tamlin, stop pushing me back, let me wake you up. Tamlin-

_Rhys’s voice was gone._

_“I might be dead, but I’m not the only dangerous thing out there for you,” Amarantha said softly. She cut into his face with absolute precision, reopening old wounds, forcing old scars to bleed again. “Can’t have you waking up before you hear what I have to say. He can just wait. I need you to remember something, Tamlin. Can you remember something for me? It’s very important. Be my good boy and remember.”_

_She moved down to his neck and he moved his head to the side for her, closing his eyes. “Yes. I can remember.”_

_“Yes, what?”_

_“... yes, your Majesty.”_

_The pain in his throat was so faded, but maybe that was just because he had gotten so used to it. You could get used to anything, really._

_She closed her hand around his bloody throat. “There are worse things in the world than me,” She whispered. “Remember when he is locked in the light that you can bring him home. I showed you how to bring him home, didn’t I? What mercy I showed my beautiful boys... Remember that not all stars are suns.”_

_“What? Why? Why should I remember…”_

_“Say it.”_

_“Not… all stars are suns. I can get him out of the light. But why? How? I-”_

_“Oh, Tamlin. You were never the sharpest tool in the toolbox, were you? It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.” She brushed her lips against his cheek. “You’re mine. You’ll never leave. She is not who she appears to be.”_

_“Why are you still here?”_

_“Because if I can’t have you two, no one can.” Red hair brushed against his cheek as she leaned over to whisper in his ear, sliding her ash knife effortlessly between his ribs. Tamlin felt no pain. “You and Rhys both belong to me. I am the reason you are mated. You should have been fucking grateful, not killed me for it. If they had just stopped fighting none of this would have ever happened. You’d still be with me. I ordered him to build something dark inside your mind, Tamlin. There is a place your thoughts do not want to go, a box Rhys built of what I made him do to you. When you need to save him, open it.”_

_“Wh-what? Amarantha, I-”_

_“Sssshhhh… no more talking.” She twisted the knife between his ribs. “Your life would have been easier down there in the dark with me. Now it’s time to suffer.”_

Damn it, Tamlin, how did you kick me out like that? You don’t even know how to do that. Wake. Up. _Now_.

_He snarled at her, feeling a sudden burst of energy, and there were no silver cuffs around his wrists and he grabbed the knife she’d buried to the hilt in his ribs and pulled it back out of himself, gasping at something that wasn’t quite pain._

_“I don’t belong to you,” He hissed. “And I never did.” He threw the bloody knife to the side and laughed darkly, wiping a hand across his mouth._

_“What?” She looked startled, backing away from him in the bed._

_Tamlin growled, and began to shift into his beast form, feeling the welcome stretching tendons as his claws slid out from the ends of his fingers. “I know who I belong to.”_

Tamlin jerked awake, coughing with the sheets tangled around his legs. A hand was shaking his shoulder. This wasn’t his room. He never slept in his room. He took in a gasp of air, pushing himself up.

“There we go.” Rhys’s warm voice, the hand still on his shoulder. Tamlin found his own hands were up at his throat, pulling them back to feel around his ribcage, half-expecting to find the ash blade still buried there. His shaking hands found nothing. “There we go,” Rhys said again, a little soothingly. He looked up and said to someone Tamlin couldn’t see, “Go get him some tea.” There was a pause, and then he held up one hand. “Wait. Bring back some of _my tea,_ please.”

“Rhys- Rhys, I-” Tamlin grabbed at his face with both hands, feeling the warm skin, really _here,_ pulled Rhys down to kiss him roughly, desperately. After a second, Rhys pushed him away.

“Nightmare,” Rhys said simply, a hand to his face. “Take a deep breath, Tam. I’m right here.”

Tamlin pushed himself up on one arm, blinking. He was in Rhys’s room, sleeping in his bed, where he spent every night these days… especially since the only alternative he had was sleeping in his study. The window was wide open and he could see that the sun had begun to rise, a warm shining counterpoint to the darkness in his mind.

_I ordered Rhys to build something dark inside your mind._

He must have lost control of himself in his sleep; vines had grown seemingly right out of the walls, covering the furniture and bookshelves with roses that were a vibrant bloody red, blooms opened from floor to ceiling, an obscenity of velvet petals weeping slowly to the floor. They twined around everything, including the bedposts. He could see, just behind Rhys’s head, a single bloom that was a deep purple edged in black.

“Shit.”

“You redecorated,” Rhys said amiably. “It’s… intense.”

Tamlin nodded, jamming his hands over his closed eyes and taking a deep, shaking breath in. “I-I saw…”

“I know. Can you make them… go away, or do I just have the best roses in Prythian eternally in my bedroom now?”

Tamlin nodded one more time, slowly pulling back his hands. As he stared around and fully woke up, the roses withered, became dust, and disappeared, blown out the window by an unnatural breeze.

He could see the sun, just beginning its slow climb from the horizon. There were clouds already gathering, promising a chill and overcast day later on. For now, the rising sun stained the clouds a bright and bloody red that nearly matched his roses. Tamlin thought, randomly, of something the pirates in his mother’s books always said.

_Red sky in morning, sailors take warning._

“Another nightmare?” He asked, more to himself than to Rhys. He sat up, leaning back on his hands, looking over at him for the first time. Rhys was still mussed from sleeping, a blanket pooled around his waist and his black hair tousled, falling over one eye. The reddish light from outside played over the lines of his face, and Tamlin thought, _if I weren’t the one in bed with him I’d hate him so much for being so fucking handsome first thing in the morning. No one should have the right to look that good when they still have dust in their eyes from sleeping. If I told him how good he looks right now, he’d preen for a week._

_Why did I choose to fall in love with him, of all people?_

Rhys sat back, watching Tamlin, open concern on his face, the hint of a smile, compassion and kindness. It was the difference between night and day when compared to the casually cruel, soulless High Lord he usually seemed to be in front of others. Open on the table was the book Tamlin had been reading last night when Rhys had stood behind him and leaned over, put his hand over the pages, and said softly, _you’re not really going to sit there reading all night when you have a perfectly good distraction already half-hard just thinking about you, are you?_

“Ah,” Tamlin said out loud. “That’s why.”

“That’s why what?”

"Nothing. Just thinking.”

“I tried to help, but you kicked me out at the end.”

Tamlin’s eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t even know how to do that.”

"I know,” Rhys said simply. “That’s what I said. But you did it anyway. I was in there with you at the beginning.”

“Did you see her?”

Rhys let out a ragged breath, covering his own eyes with one hand. “Yes. She had you, I was watching. Couldn’t stop her.” Tamlin realized, for the first time, that both of them were covered in a cold sweat. “Sorry, Tam. I can’t… always stop her.”

“I never expected you to.” He looked away, back at the window, trying to burn his eyes with the red in the clouds, but all it made him think of was her red hair brushing against his cheek. “I’m... sorry.” He hadn’t gotten any better at saying the words, either in their minds or out loud, in the three weeks since he and Rhys had come back together after her death. Tamlin had never been good at apologies, had never found it easy to force the words out, even when he wanted to. Even when it would fix things. “I couldn’t feel you. I think I heard...” The dream was already fading, leaving only her voice, urging him to remember.

_If I can’t have you two, no one can._

_I’m the reason you are mated._

_Not all stars are suns._

“You were too deep into it. It’s fine, Tamlin. Your nightmares are a nice interruption from my own,” Rhys said and moved away from him, standing up off the bed, looking out the window at the sky. Tamlin watched him, just taking in the way the pinkish-red light of this strange dawn edged the tanned skin.

 _Are you standing there because you want to watch the sun rise, or because you know how good that light looks on you?_ Tamlin spoke silently into the mating bond and let himself fall back into the bed, head against the pillow, turning only a little so he could keep watching Rhys move.

There was a shimmer of amusement in return. _I think you know my answer is ‘both’. Are you watching me because you want to see the sun rise, or because you just want to look at me?_

_I think you know my answer is 'both'._

His voice along the mating bond teased good-naturedly, even as a vague sense of terror tried to cling to him, of red hair on his skin and the knife in her hands. He ran a hand over the stubble on his jaw and chin, feeling the raised bumps of the ash-wood scars on his left side. She’d been opening them back up, as if they had faded. He didn’t think any of them had, yet.

Finally, he stood, pulling on his sleeping pants just before one of Rhys’s shadow servants floated in with tea and two mugs on a tray, plus-

Tamlin raised an eyebrow at the small crystal decanter with amber liquid in it on the tray. “That’s not tea, Rhys.”

“This is how _I_ drink tea,” Rhys said, without turning away from the window. “Especially today.”

The day crashed into him all at once, and Tamlin sighed and poured some of the amber liquid, which had a warm sharp scent he knew very well indeed, into their hot tea. “Right. I forgot what today is.” He brought Rhys his mug and the other man took it with a flickering smile of thanks, before he looked back outside at his healing, mostly rebuilt city. Tamlin pressed a kiss to his shoulder, just slightly, before slumping into a nearby chair. “I forgot they’re sentencing Cas today.”

Velaris was not quite rubble any longer, but some buildings still leaned precariously from the earthquakes and others were scored or damaged by the rocks Rhys had brought down to earth. You could see the damage better from the House of Wind, but Rhys hardly went up there any longer.

They had gotten lucky that the death counts weren’t higher. Lucky that Anuie had rallied the Darkbringers to their aid, that the legion itself had been so quick to agree to defend a city they hadn’t even known existed prior to that day. Luckier still that Amren had been able to winnow so many out so quickly. But there had still been death. And some of it could be laid directly at the feet of the general who led Rhys’s armies - the one who had opened the wards that hid Velaris and invited Amarantha in.

Cassian’s trial had begun five days ago, and Tamlin had refused to leave Rhys’s side even for one. Lucien was running the Spring Court while he was gone, as he had been running things, more or less, since the first day Tamlin had gone Under the Mountain.

Tamlin had realized, over the months since Amarantha’s death, that Lucien had always been capable of far more than he was ever given credit for. He had the sense of how to be a High Lord, and there were times at dinner when Tamlin wondered, uneasily, if Lucien had been meant to be the heir to the Autumn Court and Eris had somehow managed to ensure it skipped him.

There was a certain intensity, a natural understanding, that marked someone meant to be a High Lord’s heir. Tamlin had shown the aptitude for it as a child and his father had chucked him into war camps to keep him out of his brothers’ sight as a result. His mother had been worried for him because of it. His brothers had simply beat the daylights out of him in some futile attempt to make it go away.

Lucien, he thought, showed the aptitude for it. If he hadn’t been so busy using him as an emissary he might have noticed earlier. But Eris had been given the mantle of High Lord of Autumn from the moment Beron had died. Had Lucien seeking sanctuary in the Spring Court cut him off from his inheritance so completely?

_I don’t think I’ve been fair to him._

No. There was something Tamlin was missing. Lucien had done an excellent job, and once Cassian was sentenced, he intended to give him time to travel, to run that mysterious errand in the Day Court he refused to explain.

Which he should be able to do soon enough, since today was the final day.

The Court of Nightmares would have a final council vote on what sentence to lay down on the general who had sold them out to Amarantha, whose actions had led to the deaths of more than two hundred of the Night Court’s citizens, both High Fae and lesser. And that didn’t include the Darkbringers, who had lost several dozen of their own soldiers in the fight.

Which was why Rhys was up at dawn and already drinking.

“It won’t be a death sentence,” Tamlin said reassuringly, watching Rhys sip a drink that was only about two-thirds tea. His felt the warmth of the liquor down his throat when he drank from his own mug, felt it begin to spread through him, relaxing his shoulders, warming his mind. The nightmare seemed further away, foggier, harder to recall. More like the lie it had truly been.

Wait. She had asked him to remember something…

_Fuck that. I don’t have to take her orders anymore. She’s dead._

“I can’t see how it will be anything else,” Rhys said softly. His voice was carefully controlled. “He let her in. He’s the reason they died.”

“He was under a spell, same as you, and they didn’t find you guilty,” Tamlin pointed out, but the argument was hollow and he knew it.

“He’s not the High Lord. In the absence of a living Amarantha to try for her crimes, he makes a convenient scapegoat.” There was a twist of dark humor in him, suddenly, something too dark for Tamlin to follow. “Devlon will likely see it as a way to help his own position as leader of the war bands. He’s never liked Cas trying to push for the girls to get trained as warriors, either. _He’ll_ call for death.”

“Anuie won’t. Mor has his promise. Neither will Amren or Mor, and they both get a vote.”

“Anuie is a young and only barely tested Steward for the Court of Nightmares,” Rhys said pointedly. “He’s running a court whose High Lord struggles to sit on that damn throne. I wouldn’t trust what he says his vote will be, because he’s going to be more interested in his personal security than what happens to _my friend._ And I don’t blame him.”

There was a pause, while Rhys thought it over. “I don’t get to vote because of my _personal bias._ Amren and Mor’s votes will count for less than the High Fae families, same reason. Very few of them like Illyrians to begin with. It’ll also be a way to make clear their opinion of what I am, even though they cannot actually punish me for the accident of my birth.” At Tamlin’s puzzled look, Rhys smirked. “Half-breed, remember?”

Tamlin nodded, slowly. “This is why I like that most of my court ran off when I took over. All the High Fae assholes obsessed with pedigree and breeding went to Autumn or Winter. You know who was left? People you can _understand_ and don’t have to try and out-think.”

“Spring, it is _physically painful_ that I can’t say the really insulting retort I just thought of.”

“I mean, you could.” Tamlin grinned up at him from where he sat. “It won’t end well for you, but you _could._ I still say the sentence won’t be death.”

Rhys frowned. _What makes you so sure?_ He asked, tentatively, along the bond.

_Do you want me to be honest?_

_Of course I do._

Tamlin stood and walked away from him, opening the door between their rooms, stepping into his own. The air here was stale and dusty, as Tamlin still could not sleep in his own bed. But his clothing was in here, and he needed to look like a High Lord today. He switched sleeping pants out for a pair of thickly woven, high quality brown pants, a high-necked hunter green shirt that would hide most of his scars, except for those on his face. He did up the buttons himself, but left the laces at the ends of his sleeves trailing loosely as he moved.

He carried his boots back into Rhys’s room, closing the door behind him. He would look every inch the High Lord of Spring today, standing at Rhys’s side, in a place where no one would want him there but Rhys himself. A place where, traditionally, he would not have been welcomed - this was Night Court business. Even the courtiers from other courts who were visiting would stay away today.

He and Rhys, though, had become something outside of tradition, and he was going to be here by his side for this.

_I think they won’t decide on death because they won’t want you to see them vote for death. They won’t want you to mark their names. And I think those who might do so anyway will think that it’s too easy to let him be executed, that he deserves something worse._

_What would be worse?_ There was pain in Rhys’s mental voice, even as the Night Lord dressed himself in his usual black and slightly less black, head to toe, with only a snap. The shape of his shirt was similar to Tamlin’s. His sleeves had no laces, but otherwise he seemed almost like Tamlin’s shadow. They made an odd pair of men, the light and the dark.

 _I haven’t figured that part out yet._ He watched Rhys drink the rest of his tea all at once, then pour himself a full cup straight from the decanter. “I’ll be right beside you, you know,” He said out loud.

“You think I should face it sober?”

“No. I’m just saying you don’t have to drink it all now when you’ll have someone to give you drinks while you’re actually there.”

Rhys smirked, a soundless shake of his shoulders the only sign of laughter. “You’re not required-… you don’t _serve_ anyone, Tamlin.”

“No,” Tamlin replied, a hint of unease in his thoughts. _If I can’t have you two, no one can_. “Not anymore. But I got plenty of experience pouring drinks for rulers, didn’t I? Might as well put it to good use.” He stood, looking down at himself, when his boots were on. “How do I look?”

Rhys gestured aimlessly towards a full-length mirror in the corner of the room. “See for yourself.”

“No.”

Rhys looked back at him, his jaw set. “Just look, Tamlin.”

“You know I can’t.” Tamlin looked away, bristling with annoyance. “You’re better at this than I am. I’ve never been good at… clothes. Just tell me what needs changed.”

“Tamlin, for Cauldron’s sake, it’s just a _mirror_. It won’t show you anything you don’t already know is there. Just… just look.” They’d had this conversation a dozen times or more by now, and it always went the same way. Tamlin wondered why Rhys even bothered to keep trying.

“I said _no._ ” Tamlin felt his hands start to curl into fists without thinking about it, the hint of claws at the tips of his fingers. He looked down at the floor. “You _know_ I can’t.”

“You know the scars are there, Tamlin,” Rhys said, stepping towards him. “They’re just scars. That’s all. You can’t avoid seeing them forever.”

“The scars are not why I don’t want to look, Rhys, and you damn well know it.”

Rhys’s voice became more authoritative, an order. “You won’t stop seeing her until you look, Tamlin. I’m telling you - _just look in the mirror._ ” Tamlin felt himself almost start to turn automatically before he caught it.

“Don’t order me around,” Tamlin said, the barest hint of a growl. “You _know_ I don’t like-”

“I’m sorry, I-I didn’t mean to say it like that. It’s just a mirror. You have faced more frightening things than your own reflection, Tamlin.” It was Rhys’s damn _calm_ that was so infuriating. “You have faced so many things. I know you think you’ll see _her_ , but you won’t. It’s been nearly seven months. You haven’t looked in a mirror since-”

“ _Her_ mirrors.” Tamlin’s voice caught. “I know.”

 _Look at yourself,_ he heard her command, and could almost see his own reflection even now, the sweat on his skin and his half-lidded eyes, mouth open as he begged, Rhys’s hands holding onto his hips as he thrust into him so hard he had to catch himself with his palms against the cold glass of the mirror, Rhys’s voice murmuring reassurances in his ear even as she grabbed him by the hair and forced his eyes up, forced him to look at himself and see his hair twisted in her fingers, Rhys’s violet eyes a flash of reflection behind his head that only made him louder, both of them looking at the mirror with a gaze cloudy with _want-_

“It’s not going to be what you think it is. When you do this…” Rhys trailed off. Whatever he wanted to say, he kept to himself. Then: “Just _look at yourself,_ Tamlin!”

“Shut _up_ , Rhysand!” He felt the roar at the edge of his voice and the slightest disturbance in the air around him. He turned his back on Rhys, clenching his hands together to stop the claws. “I don’t have to obey _commands_ anymore. Sometimes I think you just liked giving them.” He took a deep breath, put a hand up over his face, the anger draining from him as quickly as it had risen, jamming his eyes shut as tightly as he could.

_That time with Rhys when she’d kept ordering him to start again, and Tamlin had ended up watching himself, staring up at the mirrored ceiling to her bed as he lay on his back, watching the muscles in Rhysand’s back moving, his own fingers aching to leave red claw marks, Rhys whispering into his ear in a way that made him nearly lose control, watching himself twist and writhe-_

Almost immediately they flew back open again and he forced his hands down to his sides.

 _Don’t close your eyes,_ he thought, or Rhys said down the bond, and he wasn’t sure which.

He tried to breathe slowly, deeply, taking his time. The claws went back in. He felt the beast settle, unhappily, within him. “Wait. I didn’t mean to get mad.”

“Yes, you did,” Rhys said, mildly, unoffended. “And you are right, Tamlin my love, you don’t have to obey commands. Never again. But… you didn’t lose your temper, either.”

 _Progress,_ Tamlin thought weakly. He was trying, and every time Rhys pushed, he lost his temper a little less - because destruction was what _she did._ What his father had done. What had been done to himself, and to Rhys, for as long as he could remember. What he had done to Feyre, by letting Amarantha rip her apart, by trying to hide her like something delicate when Feyre had been strong, he should have given her the tools to take Amarantha on, he should have… Tamlin was trying to be done being destructive.

“You have to sooner or later,” Rhys said with a shrug. “We agreed, remember? No one gets better unless we _try_.”

“I still don’t want to look in the mirror,” He said tightly. “Please tell me how I look. Please.”

“Fine,” Rhys said, heavily, conceding defeat. “You look good. I mean, I look better, but that’s always going to be true.” Tamlin rolled his eyes, but couldn’t quite stop the quirk of a smile. Rhys stepped forward, doing the laces on Tamlin’s sleeves, letting his fingertips trail just a little bit against his skin. Tamlin closed his eyes, slowly, at the welcome warmth. This time, he saw nothing behind his eyelids but a warm, comfortable darkness.

“Rhys, I’m going to be right beside you for this,” He said, softly. He heard Rhys let his breath out all at once, and opened his eyes to see Rhys’s self-control cracking, the careful emptiness of his smile fading. He put a hand up to the side of his head, tucking some black hair back behind one ear. “I’m going to be standing right next to you. And I promise you, he’s not going to die.”

“Tamlin, you don’t know they won’t call to execute him. You can’t know.” Rhys leaned his head down into Tamlin’s hand. “He let her in.” Those violet eyes closed, but Tamlin had seen pain in them before. He knew he’d only see more, now.

“How much of him was even in there when he did?”

“I don’t know.” Rhys’s eyes went distant and pained, and Tamlin knew he was thinking of the look on Cas’s face, the strange smile that wasn’t like him at all, the way he and Azriel had looked at each other when Amarantha gave them the order to kill. “Not much. If I had had more time I could have dug him out of his own head myself, but… even if it wasn’t much of him in control, it was… enough.”

_You don’t understand, Nightmare. I promise you, he’s not going to die. Look at me._

Rhys opened his eyes.

“If they try, I’ll get him out of there alive myself. One way or another. Or Azriel will.”

_Did you speak to Az about it?_

_Not... exactly._

“I’m not ready,” Rhys said softly.

“You never would be,” Tamlin replied. He could feel the edge of the anger still in him, not so much at Rhys but at the entire land of Prythian and everything his life had been, his entire history. “They’re your brothers. But… you go and you do it anyway. We’re High Lords. That’s what we do.” He twisted the air, slightly, in one hand, using it to blow Rhys’s black hair into his eyes. The Night Lord smiled and shook it back out.

_There. That’s better._

_What did you do?_

_Made you smile._


	2. That Says Everything I Need to Say

Azriel had been sharpening his daggers since before dawn. 

The sky had still been full of stars when he had woken up, discovering himself curled against Cas’s warmth, nuzzled into his neck. The covers were tangled somewhere around their feet, and the air was chill against his skin. He blinked a few times, considered simply closing his eyes again and going right back to sleep, but the shadows whispered to him and he frowned.

He’d slid himself carefully out of the bed, taking a moment to look back down at his oldest friend. Well… or something, anyway. He wasn’t sure what Cas was now, but ‘friend’ definitely did not quite define it. 

There was a feeling, to all of this, that made Az deeply uncomfortable. He had never liked feelings. They were difficult to pin down and impossible to control or truly analyze and neutralize. They constituted a weakness and a threat. Mitigating the potential consequences of Cas’s feelings - and where they led him - made up a larger part of Azriel’s history than he was entirely willing to admit.

But... Cas had been his weakness since they were still kids, and Azriel had discovered there was something wonderful in being swept away in someone, in feelings he did not control. In no small part because this change in what they were to each other meant he was better able to act in moments like this one, when the shadows worried and fussed over the Illyrian general’s dreams.

Cas scratched at his left wrist in his sleep, fingernails digging in until they gouged without ever waking him. He’d always been someone who could sleep through just about anything when he wasn’t actually at war, which had been useful nearly all of their lives, but also meant in nightmares, he was trapped until his body was ready to wake up.

His eyebrows knitted slightly, the muscles in his arms shifting, eyelids twitching. The shadows hissed and whispered them to Az. Cas was on the floor of her bedroom and she was speaking to him. Aziel could almost smell the sweet vanilla smell, the kind of thing that could make you drunk, the scent that came off of her and made it hard to tell her no. He could hear the rattle of chains, Amarantha’s sweetly spoken poison in his ear. 

“Wake him.” There was a pause. Azriel blinked and sat up a bit more, turning to look down at a shadow that had curled around his wrist. “Are you sure?” Another pause. Azriel’s mouth thinned into a line. Finally, he said softly, “Show me.”

_“-worse things in the world than me,”_ _She was murmuring, her fingers tangled in his black hair. She was sitting in a simple chair in her bedroom, Cas sitting at her feet, nearly between her legs. There were shadows in all the corners of the room, but they weren’t his shadows - they ignored Azriel’s tentative command, instead they answered to her. They nipped at Cas’s heels and ankles and he pulled his legs in, knees up to his chest, wincing at their bite. “Remember that not all stars are suns. Can you say that back to me, Cassian?”_

_ Cas glared down at the floor, pulling at the silver that was back around his neck, rattling the chain that ran to the wall.  _ Azriel could see and not-see that Cas had begun, in his sleep, to scratch at his neck now.  _ “You’re dead,” He hissed, but there was something in his eyes that told Azriel he wasn’t entirely sure.  _

_ How long would it take for him to stop seeing her in his sleep? How long before he was confident in reminding the dream version of her that she was gone? _

_ “Everyone keeps telling me I’m dead,” Amarantha said with a laugh, leaning over him, her loose red hair falling around him in a sweet-scented curtain, running her fingers over his head. She was wearing a deep purple robe, nearly black, tied loosely at her narrow waist.  It was slightly sheer and fell open when she moved. Azriel felt himself blush, faintly, at the sight of her skin, the shadows that wound over her collarbone and dipped down between her breasts, the hint of her nipples that showed through the gauzy fabric. There was a void of shadow that swirled over her heart. “Why do you think everyone keeps telling me that? Here I am, alive and well, and you were never freed from me at all. This is your home now. Repeat what I said back to me, Cassian.” _

_ A shudder went through him and Cas closed his eyes. “Something about stars?” _

_ “Bad bat,” Amarantha said, yanking Cas’s head back by his hair playfully. “Try again.” _

_ “Fuck you.” Cas spat at her and she wiped it away, her pupils narrowing even further until they were pinpricks in her pretty face.  _

_ “Did you forget him, down in the prisons?” Amarantha asked in a hushed voice. “Perhaps I’ll ask him instead. Which of you is the stronger, when it comes to pain?” _

_ Rhys? Was she threatening him with Rhys? _

_ “I’ll try again,” Cas said, quickly, putting his hands up in supplication, all his anger gone, replaced by fear. “Please let me try again. I love him. Don’t hurt him. I said I’d stop fighting you if you didn’t hurt him. I let you in.” _

_ Ah. Azriel wondered if he stepped away, found his way through Cas’s uneasy dream world into the prisons, wandered the dark corners of his mind, if he would see his own face behind the bars down there. What was he like, in Cas’s mind? _

“Do I even have my wings, in your worst dreams?” He asked out loud.

_ Amarantha’s smile softened, and her grip on his hair did, too. She rested her hand against the side of his face and Cas closed his eyes. “Not all stars are suns,” Amarantha said, gently. “Repeat that back to me.” _

_ “Not all stars are suns,” Cas repeated, in a leaden, emotionless voice.  _

_ “Good boy,” Amarantha purred. Then she raised her eyes.  _ Azriel wanted to stumble back, realizing she was looking right at him, only to remember he wasn’t actually here - this was Cas’s dream and he wasn’t in it, only looking in from the outside, seated on the side of the bed. And also, she’d been dead for more than half a year now.

_ “There are worse things in the world than me,” She said, directly to Azriel, a dead queen who only existed in nightmares, her hand still resting against his oldest friend’s face, the other straying to play with the chain that led from his neck to the wall. She tightened her grip and yanked Cas closer to her. He stumbled forward onto his hands and knees, breathing hard, wings curled tightly against his back. She slid her arms around his neck as she leaned over, resting Cas’s forehead against her collarbone. “Remember, little bird, that power may bring down a mountain, but it takes twenty thousand springs to build one.” _

_ Cas closed his eyes. “What the fuck does that mean?” _

_ “Say it one more time.” She turned her eyes back to Cas. “You have to remember it, both of you. It’s important, little bird.” _

_ “Both of us…? Not all stars are suns,” Cas said, a little stronger this time. “I’m not a bird. We don’t even have feathers.” _

_ “I have never called you a bird because of your wings. I called you a bird because of how beautifully you  _ sang _ for me. Especially when I tore out his wing and you begged to take his place.” _

_ “I was so fucking glad when Rhys ripped out your heart.” _

_ “Ah, but I’m still here, aren’t I? You should have been grateful for the certainty I would have given you,” She said lovingly. “You had a chance for a love that was enduring and unending, and you threw it away.” _

_ “I was trying to keep him safe,” Cas snapped, but some of the anger had gone out of him.  _

**"** _Y ou did a remarkable job of the opposite,” Amarantha said with a low laugh. “Still, you shouldn’t be hard on yourself. I was an empty vessel and you could never have suffered enough to satisfy me. There are worse things in the world than me, and they will want you.”_

_ “What? Why?” _

_ “For your power.” She placed her palm against Cas’s heart, fingers splayed out, allowing her fingernails to scratch his collarbone just slightly. He closed his eyes, not fighting her. “Right in here. You are the strongest Illyrians in thousands of years. Did you think it was mere coincidence that you and Azriel were born at the same time and in so big a world, still managed to find each other? Oh, no, little bird. You may bring down the mountain, but remember, Cassian, remember; it is the act of generations of spring that rebuilds it.”  _

_ Cas nodded, without opening his eyes. Cas fought her less and less, in his dreams, even as he seemed less damaged by her when awake. She leaned down slowly to kiss him and he did not pull away.  _

“Why is she telling Cas this?” Az asked the shadows, who had no answer for him. All the things in this nightmare… these were… this was…

_ Amarantha pulled back from Cas and met Azriel’s eyes again. A slow smile curved her lips, wicked and without compassion. “I’ll help you, little bird. If I can’t have you two, no one can.” _

Az freed himself from his shadows, shaking like a dog throwing off water. “Since when do you have visions, Cas?” He muttered, careful to keep his voice low enough that he didn’t wake the other male up. “Since when do you get help for the future?”

Azriel grazed a thumb across Cas’s forehead, rubbed his hand in circles on his back between his wings like he’d done when they were young, murmured reassuring nothings to Cas until the dreams settled back into a formless darkness. 

Once he was sure Cas was truly in a deep sleep again, Azriel had pulled on last night’s clothes and headed outside with a whetstone, leaving only one shadow behind to keep an eye on Cas and ensure he didn’t slide back into the nightmare again. The air was brisk and chill, only a few weeks past the longest night, but Illyrians ran warm, and it would be a while before he’d need to go back upstairs for his coat.

His left wing, which Amarantha had nearly torn from his back, dragged the ground slightly until he remembered to put the extra effort into holding it up. The healers, in hushed whispers, had told him the tendons had stretched too far and could never truly heal. 

_ “Can I fly?” He’d asked, feeling Cas’s eyes on him from across the room, silently willing him to stay over there where he couldn’t hear this. Somehow, Cas didn’t eavesdrop, and never asked. If they had said he’d never fly again, he wasn’t sure what he would do. He’d had to wait so long to even get started flying… if Amarantha had taken that from him... _

_ “We… think so,” one of the healers, a youngish lesser fae male, had said in a soft, gentle voice. “We promise nothing, of course, but… we think you will fly again. But… you will not fly for as long, nor can you fly as far.” _

_ “What if I must?” Azriel asked, thinking of past flights into battle, times he had had to fly from court to court, trips to Illyrian war camps. “What if I need to fly far? Or fast?” _

_ The healers had looked to each other, and Azriel had fought an instinctive despair at the expression they shared. Finally, they looked back at him. “It will hurt,” The youngish male finally answered. “It will hurt, and it will stretch the tendons further if you push beyond your natural endurance. If you push too hard, you will lose flight altogether. Please, shadowsinger. Try to keep to the ground.” _

_ “It is a gift from the Mother that you will ever fly at all,” The older female healer said, with a sort of plaintive note in her cracking voice. “If your lord had been even a few seconds later, you would have had no left wing to save.” _

Azriel had spent nearly seven months trying to be grateful, but it was a struggle. Even after her death, Amarantha had left them all with damage. This was one last gift, he thought bitterly, from the bitch that had kept Cas in prison so long he couldn’t sleep inside by himself anymore.

He sat on an old, half-broken wood chair in front of a charming brick artist’s studio. He rented a small second-story apartment just above it. Azriel had rarely stayed in the apartment for any length of time, mostly using it as a place to crash when he went drinking and needed somewhere close to the bars to stumble home to. He and Cas had probably passed out cold here more often than he had fallen asleep  _ normally _ in that bed.

Although lately they’d been using the apartment basically every night. Azriel felt the smallest smile on his face. What they’d done last night might have ended in sleep, but it hadn’t exactly started with getting drunk.

The little building had been damaged during the attack on Velaris, but not all that badly, and you could hardly even tell where the walls and roof had needed repairs. Azriel had come to personally help the artist he rented from while she swept out all the debris, repainted the inside. He’d replaced all her studio supplies on his own, to her nervous gratitude.

He’d rented this apartment for decades, since Rhys had gone Under the Mountain, but she never stopped being nervous around him.

Everyone was nervous around Az, and mostly it did not bother him. He knew why. He never knew the right face to make, and even if they couldn’t quite name what it was, people noticed. They saw that his reactions were always a few seconds behind everyone else’s, the time it took him to echo the look on other peoples’ faces and catch up. 

Azriel did not like having feelings, and he liked having to express them even less. Well… except when it came to Cas.

Azriel settled in to work, letting his thoughts scatter wherever they wanted while he carefully sharpened his knives. Inevitably they cycled back, as they usually did these days, to Cas.

The sky was a vivid red as the sun rose, giving off a weak warmth that could not quite cut through the chill.

Azriel heard the outside door open and shut, listened to Cas’s bare feet come down the wooden staircase. Cas’s eyes on his back felt like a gentle weight and Azriel smiled down at his latest blade, tilting his head a little so he could see Cas out of the corner of his eyes.

“Morning.” Cas’s voice was a little gruff, slightly slurred still from sleep. He was wearing a pair of loose pants and nothing else, apparently not even noticing the chill in the air. His hair was tousled, and as he stretched his arms over his head, Azriel couldn’t keep his gaze focused on his knife any longer and turned to openly watch.

“Am I that good to look at?” Cas asked with a wicked smile, stretching out his wings. There were scars speckled across his torso. Nothing big, just silvery marks from old blades and battles. Azriel knew them all by heart. 

“Yes,” Az replied quietly. The uncharacteristic feeling in his voice, the sincerity of the answer, turned Cas’s face red and his confidence shifted to an uncertain thrill.

“Okay, see, you answering like that is absolutely not fair. You were supposed to say no, or be flustered. There’s a script for this.”

_ If they vote to kill you today I will slaughter everyone in that room. _

“Why would I say no? Yes is a true answer.”

“Remind me to explain the concept of teasing to you sometime,” Cas muttered, but the red in his face only grew stronger. “The sunrise is… something. You think it looks like that just for me?”

“Yes, I’m sure the sun chose to reflect its rays against the clouds in just such a way simply to commemorate the end of your trial.” He couldn’t quite keep the smile off his face - or out of his voice. “See? I know what teasing is.” He could feel that Cas wanted to come closer to him, could feel it coming off of him in waves, but there were other fae up and about even this early in the morning, and that was the thing that sat between them, the heavy stone they could not move.

Cas was afraid to be seen with another male.

Azriel could handle any potential fallout from the discovery that he and Cas were more than lifelong friends. Most of what he did, the work he performed for Rhys, wasn’t reliant on Illyrian respect and most of the fae were too long-lived to care much about who went to bed with whom. Helion alone would have scandalized everyone for centuries if that were the case. But if the Illyrians found out about Cas…

_ He’s about to be sentenced. What would it even matter? It could all be over after this, and their judgement will mean you never had a chance. _

His shadows clung more tightly to him, whispering anxiously, reflecting his thoughts. Azriel looked back down at his small pile of daggers.

Cas said softly, “You okay?” 

He walked closer, casually, as though he were just looking out over the street. The artist’s studio was just across the way from the river, and the two of them looked over it, listening to the quiet rush of running water. Cas’s fingertips reached out, just slightly, and brushed Azriel’s shoulder. Where he touched, Azriel’s skin lit up, and he struggled not to grab him and pull him down into the chair.

“I’m fine,” Azriel said in his usual empty voice. He finished the dagger, set it aside with the others, and started on the last one. 

“I don’t believe you.” He looked back up, startled, to see the smile gone from Cas’s face, replaced with concern. “You have thirteen sharpened daggers lying beside you and one to go, which suggests you’re pissed or worried.” 

Azriel’s face must have given away his surprise, because Cassian grinned. He looked around, then leaned over and pushed some of Azriel’s mop of black hair off his forehead.. Az closed his eyes, letting himself focus on the way it felt when Cas’s fingertips skimmed across his skin, tucked hair behind his ear. “We’ve been friends for  _ actual centuries,  _ Az. You think in all that time I wouldn’t pick up on the shit you do when you’re scared?”

“Not scared.” Azriel turned back to his dagger. “I simply prefer to be prepared.”

“In case they sentence me to the Prison?” Cas’s voice was light, but Az knew the question wasn’t really a joke at all.

“You’re not going to be thrown in the Prison,” Azriel said for perhaps the hundredth time in three weeks. “We both know it. No one goes in the Prison without it being… well. Harder to hold them than it is to hold you.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Cas frowned. “I’m not sure they won’t order me executed, though. What do you think Rhys will do?”

“Nothing,” Azriel said mildly. Cas looked at him with surprise. “He’s High Lord, and he’s only just come back. He’s trying to cement himself back into the Night Court. He’ll do nothing when they announce it.” He finished the final dagger, laid it aside with the others, and sat back in his chair. “Which is why he will rely on me to do whatever I have to do.”

“He’s given you leave to act?”

“Well, if we’re honest with each other, he hasn’t. Tamlin has."

"Tamlin? But he's not-"

"Exactly. And I’ve given  _ myself _ leave to ensure you escape without Rhys’s name being drawn into it at all. Come on, Cas. We’ve done stuff like this before. I know my brother well enough to know he would want me to get you out of there.”

“Az, you can’t-”

“I can.” He looked up and met Cas’s eyes again, his own cold hazel gone flinty. “Your lies may have stopped them from trying me, too, but I  _ will _ save you. Just try and stop me.” 

“I know better than to try and argue you out of something when your mind’s made up,” Cas said with a shrug. “We’re both of us stubborn as hell. Can I at least tell you it’s a shit idea to get both of us killed instead of just the one?”

_ If I can’t have you two, no one can. _

“No one is going to die today,” Azriel said evenly. “Believe that promise if you believe nothing else.”  _ At least, not the two of us. Not Rhys. Not Rhys’s mate. Not Mor or Amren. Everyone else? Well… that’s debatable. _

“You never make a promise lightly,” Cas said softly. “Never have. Do you think Tamlin would take me in like he did Lucien? If they sentence me to death?”

Azriel snorted. “I’d give good money to see if you made it a week under Tamlin’s protection before you tried to murder him in his sleep.”

“I don’t…  _ hate  _ Tamlin…”

“You sure as hell don’t  _ like  _ him.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “Does that matter? He’s Rhys’s mate, so we’re stuck with him no matter how I feel about it. I think I could make it at least two weeks if he was the only reason I was still alive, though.”

“I think he’s sweet.” Azriel stared down at his knives, waiting, struggling not to smile.

“You think he’s  _ what? _ ”

“Sweet,” Azriel said evenly, then laughed, a soft, quiet sound, at the incredulous look on Cas’s face. “Nuala thinks he is, you know.”

“Nuala has clearly lost her mind.”

“No, she hasn’t. Don’t let Cerridwen hear you say that or you’ll be checking all your food for poison.” 

“No, I know, and… he was nice to me. Down there. He brought me food to eat and purposefully got himself fucked and beaten half to hell to help get me out-”

“Please don’t talk about that,” Azriel said evenly. “She was doing that to him anyway.”

“I guess I could be more… fair to him. Maybe it’s just the High Lord thing, but whenever I have to be around both of them, all I can think is, ‘how in the Mother’s name did I end up having to put up with _ two of you _ ?’”

Azriel, despite himself, laughed. “He might be nicer if you tried being nice to him.”

“He might. I probably won’t, though.” One of Az’s shadows disengaged from the larger group that still swept its way, constantly moving, over and around and under Azriel. It seemed to shift like sand over to Cas, wound up one leg and to his hand, danced over his fingers. 

Cas smiled down at it, gradually holding his hand up to the light, watching the shimmer-wisp of darkness twine around each finger in turn. Azriel felt his throat go slightly dry as he watched Cas shiver, just a little, at the feeling - as he felt, in a strange half-sense, the way Cas’s skin felt to the shadows, too. “I’ve always wondered - do you control these?”

“No… well, sort of,” Azriel said with a shrug, having trouble paying attention to Cas’s words and his own answer. The shimmer of shadow against warm skin.... “Sometimes. Mostly they’re of my mind, but… not exactly. It’s hard to explain. They’re me and they’re not me. That one’s all on its own right now, though. They like you.”

“I like them. Always have.” The shadow turned itself into a bracelet around Cas’s wrist and then began to wind its way up his arm. The look of delighted surprise on his face was something Azriel badly wanted to lock up inside his head to keep for the rest of his life. 

_ They could vote to execute him and you’ll never get to be seen together in daylight. _

He could feel a kiss of sensation as the shadow made its slow way into Cas's shirt, across his chest and down over his stomach. Azriel swallowed and heard a ‘click’ in his throat.

“You want to see what I can do with them?” There was a sudden heat to his voice that made Cas’s eyes dart away from the shadow still curling around his hand to look at Az. “We’ll have to go back upstairs.”

The look on Cas’s face changed, in a heartbeat, from a smile to something more intense. The two men met eyes for a beat of silence. “Yes,” Cas said, with absurd seriousness. “I would like to see what else they do.”

Azriel followed Cassian upstairs, his own steps careful and measured as always, watching - and feeling - the shadows curl around and over Cas’s back, dancing over the old scars (and a few new ones from Amarantha’s prison that Cas refused to elaborate on). Watched one make its way up his spine, curl against the back of his neck, move under his hair. Az’s hands clenched into fists and unclenched again, over and over, with the effort it took to control himself. When they made it back inside, he closed the door and turned to look at Cas. Only then did he allow himself a small smile. 

Cas stepped towards him, hands out, and Azriel held a hand up. “No. Go sit down on the bed. I’m going to stay right here for now.”

“But… I want to touch-”

“You will. Let me show you this, first. Do what I say.”

Cas sat down on the bed, watching Azriel, leaning back slightly on his hands.

“There. Now don’t move.” The rest of Azriel’s shadows left him, a whispering, jostling darkness along the floor. Azriel watched, his back resting against the closed door, as they clustered around Cas’s feet and began to make their way up his legs, over and under his sleeping pants, curling up his hips. Cas’s expression was one of such intense concentration that Az laughed, a sound so soft it was almost silent. He crossed his arms in front of himself, drinking in the sight.

“Do you-... with anyone else?” Cas asked, his voice slightly choked-off, as a shadow found its way up to the side of his neck, over his ear, ruffling through his hair.

“My shadows don’t really like most people,” Azriel said matter-of-factly. “So not really. Maybe once or twice, ever, but they weren’t happy about it, then.” He watched Cas’s eyes slowly close as one of the shadows ran along the line of his wings, pressing itself against the heavy, hollow bones. He held up one hand and Azriel tsked, softly. “Drop it. Only me for now.”

Cas’s hand dropped, obediently. He shifted on the bed, leaning himself further back until he was only propped up by his elbows, feet still resting on the floor. “Haaaah, Az, I… are they happy? Nnnngh… Now?”

“Yes.” Azriel’s voice was tight. His own skin was on fire, with the faded threadlike way he and the shadows had always been able to feel each other. He’d started to get hard on the way up the steps and by now he throbbed, but he did not move. “Lie down. Let them touch you everywhere. Don’t even move. Don’t try to touch them.”

One of the shadows brushed its feathery kiss over Cassian’s already stubbornly evident arousal and Azriel nearly stumbled forward himself at the rush of heat he felt as though it were his own hands touching him. When Cas’s hands twitched, Az ordered him to hold still again, his voice ragged and coming from somewhere deep within him.

Cas clenched his hands into fists, and Azriel tried not to remember his dream. “You… you’re en-... aaaaah, mmmn, enjoying this too much, Az...”

“Yes,” Azriel replied, simply. “I am.”

_ If we’re walking into the worst case scenario, Cas, I want to do this with you first. _

Cas eventually simply collapsed completely onto his back on the bed, the shadows nearly covering him now, groaning softly. Azriel could hear their pleased whispers. They’d never really liked any of his past lovers, although he was beginning to wonder if perhaps they’d simply been waiting for him to figure out what he had already known, deep within himself.

Once Cas’s eyes had been closed for a while and he seemed truly distracted and unaware of anything else, back arched as they slid along his spine and over his thighs, curling around his hips like hands,  Azriel began to step forward, having to move slowly to keep himself in control. He took his time, listening to the low, throaty sounds Cas made without realizing it. 

It was funny. He’d heard those sounds before, Cas on one side of the wall with a female and he on the other, in the early days when they hadn’t even bothered to live anywhere but together. Caught himself listening with too much intensity, his own body alight. They’d been young; he’d assumed it was because of the female involved, a trick of biology that made him unable to stop himself from listening, that made his hands stray to himself. Now, he wondered if he’d just enjoyed hearing Cas. 

He’d never considered that he could be the one to cause these sounds one day. For all that Azriel worked hard to analyze his own feelings until they had no power over him any longer, he had never looked too closely at himself in moments like those.

Finally, with silent steps, he went over to the bed himself, reaching down, placing the palm of his hand over Cas’s heart.

The other man’s eyes flew open with surprise at the sudden touch of warm skin and he grabbed Azriel by the arms, pulling him down into the bed with one strong motion. There was a sadness in Cas’s eyes, a worry, that Azriel refused to think too much about.

_ Even if they sentence you to death, you don’t have to worry. _

Azriel kissed him, just barely brushing their lips together, smiling faintly when Cas groaned in frustration. “D-do we really have time for this?” Cas asked, in a tone that suggested exactly what he was hoping the answer would be.

“Oh, maybe not, we better go-” Az said in a mock-serious voice, acting as though he would get back up. Cas’s grip on his arms tightened and he pulled him back down, arms sliding up behind his neck. 

“You’re not going fucking  _ anywhere, _ ” Cas said in a voice not far from a growl. Azriel’s shadows were a constant presence over them both now, the slightest bit of cold, feathery touch, winding around them as though binding them together. “They’ll wait for me, I’m the star of the show. Stay with me, Az.”

“Always,” Azriel whispered, kissing the side of his head, the spot on his temple where he could almost feel his pulse beat. “Don’t move.” He slid back down, until he was on his knees next to the bed between Cas’s legs. “Don’t move a muscle, general. Don’t you dare make a sound.”

“Cauldron, I might die if you do that,” Cas said with absurd seriousness. “At least call off the shadows-”

“No. You get us both, this time.” His hands strayed to untie the laces of Cas’s loose sleeping pants, inching them down over his hips, smiling faintly to himself. “Consider this just like training in the ring. It’s an exercise in self-control.”

He felt Cas’s hips jerk upwards, just slightly, as he took him into his mouth, a taste already growing familiar, length and silky skin and an immense heat. He gently pushed them back down, looking up to see Cas’s eyes screwed shut with the effort of holding himself still, as Azriel’s shadows and Az himself made it increasingly difficult. Azriel laughed, a bare hint of sound and vibration that tore a louder response from Cas’s throat, and took him deeper into his mouth again, slower this time, letting his tongue linger over the process. 

_ Good boy,  _ he heard Amarantha say inside his head. It felt like a bucket cold, slimy water over his head. He tried to shake her off by thinking about the heat of Cas, the way his hands were fists to keep himself from trying to touch Azriel, his eyes closed tightly like a child counting in a game of hide-and-find, not quite able to stop himself from making sounds in his throat that almost sounded like whimpers.

_ I’m not going to tell you how I feel about you. If they try to execute you, I’ll kill everyone in that room to get you out of there alive. That says everything I need to say about love. _


	3. By Nearly Unanimous Vote

When they called Cassian’s name, wide double-doors opened slowly on Hewn City’s large throne room, with every inch of drama the Court of Nightmares could wring out of the moment. Cas made himself stand still, tried to unfocus his eyes so he wouldn’t see the look on Rhys’s face, kept his expression blankly curious.

The doors opened, and the crowd murmured. He could see them pressed in, on either side of the ropes that had been hung up to create a path down the middle for Cassian to walk. Even whispering, the sound was loud enough to seem deafening. Most of them wore black, which he might have taken as a bad omen if it weren’t true that most people in the Court of Nightmares wore dark colors all the time.

A guard stood at either side of him, holding his arms. His armor felt false, like a costume rather than an extension of his skin, the way he was used to. They’d told him letting him wear his armor was a mercy they were granting him, dignity Rhys had insisted on. They had not allowed him to keep his blades.

His hair he’d pulled back, the way he did before he went to war. He couldn’t hide behind it, not today. His morning with Az had been amazing, something more than he’d ever dreamed of, but this was a crash back down to earth.

He wasn’t planning to fight it. He deserved some sort of trial, for what he’d done. Opening the wards, not just undoing the protection that had held Velaris secret for thousands of years, protections an ancient High Lord had bled himself nearly dry to put in place… he’d invited Amarantha in,  _ called _ to her, told her where she could land, where Velaris was most vulnerable to attack.

Hundreds of people in Velaris had died because of him. He deserved the trial. It was the sentence he was worried about.

“Enter, General Cassian,” came Rhys’s voice, that casually cruel, soulless voice he used when sitting on the throne in the Court of Nightmares. Cas knew better - knew this was as painful for Rhys to oversee as it was for him to experience.

_ He will do nothing,  _ Azriel’s voice rang in his mind, and Cas realized that Az was right. Rhys couldn’t afford to be weak, not right now, not when his court still fought him every step of the way as he attempted to retake the control he had lost while he’d been Under the Mountain. He’d help if it came to it but he had to at least  _ look  _ like the version of him the court knew, the version that famously gave a damn about no one.

No one, Cas supposed, except the High Lord who stood just behind Rhys’s left shoulder. Even Rhys had not been able to hide that Tamlin was his mate, and he hadn’t even tried.

The guards pulled lightly on his arms, and Cassian stepped forward. Rhys lounged in his throne, resting his cheek casually on one hand, his violet eyes closed off and empty. Just to his left side stood Tamlin, wearing a high-necked dark green shirt and brown pants, every inch the High Lord of the Spring Court, one hand openly resting on Rhys’s shoulder.

_ None of them want you here,  _ Cas thought, looking over the determination in Tamlin’s face, the way he seemed to face them all down like a prizefighter right before the match. All the scars but those on his face were covered up by his shirt today, his hair still even shorter than Rhys’s.  _ I’m impressed you’ve had the balls to stand by him anyway. Maybe the Cauldron didn’t choose as poorly as I thought.  _

Anuie, Mor’s younger brother and the current Steward of the Court of Nightmares, sat in a smaller chair to Rhys’s right. He had the same golden hair that Mor did, her same eyes and the same general shape of the face, his just a bit more masculine and angular. Anuie, who had come to save the day when it mattered, refused to follow the rest of his family as they'd taken Amarantha's money and run. Anuie, who had come to the rescue of Velaris and brought a small army with him. 

The youngest Steward of the Night Court in history, holding his father's influence together by the skin of his teeth.

There were thirteen chairs lined up in a half-circle on the ground before the dais. At one end sat Devlon, acting leader of the Illyrian war bands, smiling smugly. At the other end, Mor and Amren. Mor had a look of concern and annoyance on her face. Amren just looked  _ furious _ .

Ten more chairs between them, where ten representatives of the High Fae families of the Court of Nightmares sat. Six men and four women. Narrow-eyed, rat-faced nobility too busy backstabbing and scheming to truly care about anything at all.

No sign of Azriel, but he wasn’t exactly surprised. Az was probably lurking around here somewhere. He’d flat refused to stand by Rhys for this, and in the face of Az’s anger even Rhys hadn’t pushed the argument on that one.

Five days of evidence. Five days of Velarens speaking about what they’d gone through, the lovers, family, and friends they had lost. Even as he walked in today, the hateful whispers started up again. 

Some were angry, some just grieving and hurt. Some were worried, sympathetic, concerned. He saw anger that seemed directed at the Court itself, and not at him - but most of it was aimed directly at him. Those who hated him for what he had done hissed the names of their dead friends and relatives, the fae his actions had unwittingly slaughtered.

Cassian closed his eyes and allowed himself to be led, forcing himself to try to catalogue every single name. 

“You cut down my cousin where he stood,” A female hissed, and spat on him. “Remember Nehran, you slime.” 

My sister’s name was Evie,” A male, barely a man, said. Cas could hear the tears in his voice without even opening his eyes. “My mother’s name was Leah.”

“Brynn.”

“Nocturne.”

“Rylan and Tryll.”

There was another name, and another. They ran together but he tried, he tried so hard, to hear every single one.  _ These are the fae that you murdered by letting her in. _

Every day had been like this. Every day, Cas faltered under the weight of their names a little more. Today was the final day, the verdict. Although he’d pretended with Az at being horrified by the thought, he secretly hoped he’d be sentenced to the Prison - he probably deserved to go down there with all the monsters he’d sent there himself.

Maybe they’d throw him in a cell with the Bone Carver and come back a week later, see what was left. 

_ All she did was dangle Az in front of you, and you let all these people die. Or maybe killed them yourself.  _ Parts of what had happened down there were still blurry, but there was a deep, dark fear inside of him that he had actually done much more than simply open a shield. He remembered most of those horrible few hours, but… he didn’t know where the blood on his blade had come from. 

He knew he and Azriel had been ordered to kill, and he was terrified that he hadn’t kept his blade only to the Darkbringers, professional soldiers who could hold their own, that he had cut down civilians, too. He didn’t  _ know _ , not for sure, and that was the worst part. Az didn’t either. All the parts of what had happened that the two of them  _ remembered _ had involved… other things. 

Cas was pushed to his knees before Rhys’s throne and kept his head down, wings curled tightly against his back, hands resting on his knees. Someone who didn’t know him might have thought the pose was being enforced by the hands of the guards on his shoulders. Rhys knew better, of course - Cas knew he would see that it was only self-control that kept him on the floor, not his escorts.

When Cas looked up from under his eyelashes without raising his head, he could see a puddle of shadow in one corner that seemed a little darker than the others, and let a smile ghost, just slightly, across his face. The shadow shifted.

_ Stay with me, Az.  _ He mouthed the words, wondering if the shadowsinger could read lips.  _ Don’t leave me. _

“You may be seated, the lot of you,” Rhys declared in a lazy, silky voice. There was a rush of sound as everyone settled, skirts rustling, chairs scraping. The representatives of the High Fae families settled themselves, each of them looking at him with a different variation on contempt.

Some of these families hated him for what had happened, sure, but Cas knew damn well that most of them were just looking forward to getting rid of a  _ lesser fae  _ that Rhys had dared put above them in authority, the inferior being that was allowed to order their precious sons and daughters in battle and would always outrank them. Their contempt had nothing to do with his actions and everything to do with Rhys allowing him to  _ forget his place,  _ with the  _ unnatural influence  _ Illyrians had with the  _ half-breed High Lord. _

Rhys’s skin was lined, just slightly, with glowing starlight, a hint of a halo of it behind his head. He  _ looked  _ like midnight personified, letting his High Lord powers show through just a little, emphasizing his authority. Next to him, Tamlin shone with the glow of the spring sunrise. 

Cas could have been an insect he was preparing to stomp, for all the sign Rhys showed in his face as to their long friendship and what it meant to him.

“We have heard the evidence,” Rhys began, his voice strong and clear. Cas watched him shift, just slightly, again, and knew the discomfort for what it was. Rhys  _ hated this throne now.  _ He struggled to sit comfortably in it, and Cas had seen him once or twice very nearly kneel before it, before he remembered it was  _ his throne, his _ court, not Amarantha’s. That he wasn’t meant to kneel any longer, because he was home. 

The Court of Nightmares was colder, and crueler, than it had been when Rhys had left, and Cas understood the empty hostility in his voice as he addressed them. Rhys had to be worse than before, in order to control a court that had degraded in his absence.

It was all an act, and it wore him down, but he did it nonetheless. He didn’t know any other way to keep his hold. Cas didn’t know any other way, either. They’d been trapped in Velaris too long, and Keir had had too many opportunities to undermine Rhys while he was gone. Cas had held the armies together and kept them loyal, but the Court itself had belonged to Keir.

“We have been here for five days and have heard testimonies from many.” Rhys ticked the list off on his fingers as he spoke. “We have heard from the head of the Darkbringers, who stepped in to defend Velaris when it seemed the city was laid bare to devastation. We have heard from my Steward, my shadowsinger, my Second- and Third-in-Command, Lucien Vanserra, High Lord Tamlin himself-” Tamlin smiled, briefly, at the assembled crowd. There was no discernable reaction - most of them were still uneasy at his presence and what his relationship with Rhys might mean for the future. “-and others. There is no more evidence to be heard, and Anuie tells me the deliberations are finished.” Rhys held out one hand, bidding them to rise. “Have you a verdict, Court of Nightmares?”

From the tone of his voice, you would have thought that Rhys didn’t give a damn whether they did or not. But Cassian knew him better than almost anyone else here, and could see that he was nervous. 

“We do,” a female High Fae spoke, seated next to Devlon. She stood in a single graceful motion, sweeping the skirt of her striking, modestly-cut green gown around her. It set off bright red hair that was currently twined into an elaborate arrangement of braids. 

There was a cough, and Cas looked up to see Tamlin’s face had gone pale. Rhys was looking at the fae female with an expression of distant, ghostly distaste.  _ I don’t like red hair now, either,  _ He thought. 

The female fae did not seem to notice the tension that rose in the two of them, and smiled tightly at the assembled crowd. “We came to our final verdict only this morning, thanks to some last-minute deliberations with the current acting leader of the Illyrian war bands.”

Devlon smirked, leaned back slightly, and crossed his arms in front of himself.

Rhys raised an eyebrow and glanced at Mor’s little brother, who shook his head. “What did Devlon have to say, exactly, Lyria?” Rhys drawled.

**"** With our respect to our High Lord,” Lyria replied smoothly, every inch the professional politician, “Devlon would like to tell you himself when he gives his vote.”

Rhys considered it for a moment, then nodded. “I reserve the right to decide whether another vote must be held, based on what Devlon says. Is that acceptable to the court?”

“My lord, the vote is  _ binding _ -”

“Only if your High Lord has the full information he requires to accept it,” Rhys replied, mildly, but the note of warning in his voice made the female’s wide mouth go into a thin, angry line. “You forget yourself, Lyria. I asked, is that acceptable to the court?”

Mor’s youngest brother spoke, clear and loud. “It is acceptable, High Lord. Hear what Devlon suggested before you choose whether or not our verdict is acceptable to you.” There was something like a plea edging his voice. He was so young to be a Steward - but since Keir had betrayed them all to Amarantha and disappeared to the continent with the rest of Mor’s family, he had done an admirable job simply picking up where his father had left off, and he was much more amenable to sharing information with Azriel and Cas than Keir ever had been.

There was a murmur of agreement from each of the members of the High Families. The crowd had hushed, a mix of dread and excitement.

His knees were starting to hurt, and Cas shifted his weight imperceptibly, watching the dark shadows in the corner. Azriel had been a mess of worry this morning when the guards had come to collect him - not in any way other people could see, but still a mess. He was his usual quiet self-contained emptiness in front of everyone, but Cas had seen the way his hands shook after they had gotten back up from the bed to get dressed, his good wing curled tightly against his back. The wing that Amarantha had nearly torn from his back had hung slightly open, like it usually did, dragging the floor unless he remembered to put the extra work in to lift it. 

That was one more thing Cassian felt himself responsible for. If he hadn’t let her in, Azriel would never have been hurt.

_ No. If you hadn’t let her in, she’d have figured out what he was to you anyway and made you watch her kill him, or fuck him, or both. Or worse. _

As if Az could hear his thoughts, the dark puddle of shadow in the corner seemed to shift, slightly. Cas smiled at it, and saw one tendril of smoky shadow begin to make its subtle way across the floor towards him.

He’d done everything he could to reassure Az, but while Cas thought he was destined for the Prison, death had been a sentence on the table from the start. Something he and Az had not talked about, but that had sat between them with every moment they spent alone or pretending that what they were to each other had not changed when they were in front of others.

_ If they order you dead, you’ll never have gotten to be with Azriel in the daylight. _

Cas decided not to think about that. Months in Amarantha’s prisons, or on the floor of her bedroom, had given him an exceptional skill at simply choosing not to think about hard things.

Besides, even if the verdict was death, he was pretty sure that Azriel had hidden in the shadows precisely so he could get Cas the hell out of here. There was a good chance that Az was currently wearing as many knives hidden on his person as there were people in this room, that he would clank audibly if he tried to move.

“I am not allowed a vote.” The crowd began to quiet as Rhys spoke again. “Neither is my shadowsinger, though in most situations he and and I would both be considered part of the council. It has been declared that our lasting friendship with General Cassian, as well as the part we played in the invasion of Velaris, leaves us biased as to decisions about his fate. I... do not disagree with that characterization.” Rhys frowned, making it clear that he only agreed under duress. “Pronounce your sentence, High Families of the Night Court. Let us know your verdict, all of you. Including the Morrigan and Amren.” That flicker of distaste underneath the smirk. “And Devlon.”

Anuie sat up a little straight. “Devlon? Speak.”

The Illyrian war leader stood, training a face heavy with smug contempt on Cas. “You put innocent people at risk,” He said, the smile on his face incongruous with his words.  _ Young upstart getting what he deserves  _ was written all over him. “Nearly three hundred died as a result of your actions in Velaris alone. You were unable to protect our war bands from being abducted, and many killed, during Amarantha’s reign. When you were most needed to defend the Illyrians, you were too busy  _ hiding _ in your _ secret city _ .”

_ Please tell me this whole trial hasn’t really just been about Velaris and me putting on airs, Devlon. _

“I did not  _ hide _ ,” Cas replied evenly, raising his head to look Devlon directly in the face. He could have torn him limb from limb right here in front of everyone for that accusation of cowardice. “When I became aware of the abductions, I left immediately and attempted to find survivors to defend. I was… I was captured in the attempt, and held captive by her.” His eyes dropped, his wings beginning to itch with the remembered ache of the cramped prison cell, his wrists and his neck burning as though the silver cuffs were back on him. “That is all I will say about what happened with-... with her. That has no bearing on this trial.” There was no weakness or softness to him - Cas could have been carved from stone for all the emotion he showed. “As far as the dead… I understand my responsibility. That is why I pled guilty from the beginning.”

“You did yourself credit by acknowledging it. I have taken that into account in deciding upon your fate - all of us have. However, knowing what you’ve done, and feeling the full weight of your actions, are two different things. I originally argued that you be put to death.” Devlon was so pleased with this moment that the smugness simply came off of him in waves. The shadow in the corner began to shape itself into the vague outline of a male. “But-” Devlon said, putting one hand up. “I have a better idea.”

_ More like you couldn’t get the rest of those fussy nobles to agree to let Rhys see  _ them  _ vote to kill me, too. He may keep from their minds how close we really are, but none of them want him to mark their names.  _

“Stop stalling for time,” Rhys drawled. “Just tell us your no doubt brilliant idea, Devlon, and let us get on with it.” 

Devlon inclined his head, just a little. “Of course, High Lord. What I spoke to the High Families and the Steward about last night is… not a sentence of death. Not directly, anyway.” Cas forced himself not to react, keeping his face calm and his eyes on Devlon. The Prison, then. “As representative of the Illyrian war bands, I vote that General Cassian be exiled to Lawless for a term of five years and return without command.”

Cas felt his jaw drop open. “Lawless?” He asked, confused. “Exile? What the f-”

“Quiet, Cas,” Rhys said evenly. “Let the families finish their vote.” Tamlin’s hand had tightened on Rhys’s shoulder, just slightly.

“But I don’t understand-”

“The prisoner should be quiet while his sentence is pronounced,” Devlon said, still grinning at him. A guard’s hand clapped down hard on his left shoulder, fingers tightening. Behind Devlon, Cas watched Azriel step out, unnoticed, from the shadows in the corner, a blade in each hand. His hazel eyes blazed, and Cas saw him looking carefully around the room.  _ Checking escape routes. _

When their eyes met, Cas shook his head, just slightly, imperceptibly.  _ No more death for my sake, Az. _

“I vote for exile to Lawless,” said Lyria, the first of the High Fae families to vote. On down the line they went, a unanimous vote for exile, until it reached Mor. Mor, wearing a fiery red dress that proclaimed every inch of the power she held as Third-in-Command, raised her head and said, “I agree, under protest, with exile to Lawless. It is the only non-lethal sentence we could agree on.” She looked at Cas and smiled, a little sadly. “The  _ only one,  _ Cas.”

_ Revealing Velaris,  _ Cas thought to himself,  _ appears to have made us some enemies. Enemies who can’t punish Rhys, so they’ll punish the next best thing to him and get the Illyrian lesser fae trash out of the way at the same time. _

Amren snorted. “Well, I didn’t - and I still don’t - agree to shit.”

“We’ll disregard that vote, since you’re not actually voting  _ for _ anything,” Rhys said, trying not to smile at her. “Steward?”

Mor’s little brother stood up, staring down at Cas. “General Cassian, for your crimes you are sentenced, by unanimous vote-”

“I said I didn’t agree to shit,” Amren interrupted. “And I demand you put that in the history books, you small little rats, that I  _ did not agree to shit.  _ Cas was under enchantment and everyone here knows it, and half of  _ your  _ pompous High Fae asses would have sold Velaris to her just for _ coin _ .”

"Amren,” Rhys said in warning. “Now is not the time.”

Amren shot a glare back over her shoulder that could have melted stone. “Oh, is it not? Is it not the time, Rhys? Find me a better one, then.”

“Not in the middle of a trial verdict being read.” Rhys kept his voice even, but there was an edge to it that hadn’t been there before.

“I swear, Rhys, sometimes you are  _ exactly like your father. _ ”

Those violet eyes went wide and white-ringed. Cas watched Tamlin’s hand tighten so much on Rhys’s shoulder that his fingernails must be digging in. Rhys turned his eyes carefully away from Amren but Cas knew what he was thinking.  _ Take it back. _

Anuie cleared his throat. “By  _ nearly unanimous vote _ … You have been sentenced to exile in Lawless for a period of five years. Should you survive, you may return, but you will not return to command.”

Cas let his gaze slowly drop to the ground. Exile in Lawless. The Prison would have been kinder. The ten High Families may not have understood. Anuie may not have understood. Mor clearly didn’t, although it seemed like Amren did. Even Rhys seemed relieved, instead of worried, like he should be.

Lawless was coin-shaped bit of land where kingdoms dumped their truly unwanted, those who had no future worth or value and who had committed crimes that deserved a punishment worse than an easy death. The kind of people who tried to plan coups to overtake a High Lord’s power, or were too important to outright execute but had done horrific things… Hemmed in by magic, they were thrown into it to fight each other for scraps, to rape and murder and steal with impunity until their exile was up. Most of them never returned.

Five years there? Cas’s head spun, trying to out-think this, to understand why Devlon would have suggested it over death.  _ Because Rhys wouldn’t allow a death sentence, and Devlon doesn’t think I’ll last five years.  _

_ And he knows I know it. _

“The Court of Nightmares accepts this verdict, and so does its High Lord,” Rhys said, then raised one finger in thought. “Except… the statement about his return to command. We will discuss that and come to a final decision in five years. Cassian, you are hereby stripped of your titles. Do you understand and accept the verdict levied against you for your crimes?”

Cas was hauled to his feet. He could see Azriel beginning to move his way, his death’s head snarl on his face. His head spun with the reality of what had happened, how quickly things had been upended. He couldn’t even imagine... “I accept your verdict, High Lord, and that of your court,” Cas said in a faint voice. It was deep, calm, and even… but faint. “I will go into exile.”

Five years. Not so long, in a fae’s life.

_ You won’t last five years. You’re a lawbringer sent to a place where you’ll have a target on your back right from the start. Shit.  _ Devlon continued to grin at him. Devlon knew exactly what he had done.

“You will be marked, as all who go into exile are, to ensure you do not leave Lawless for the full term of your sentence.” Rhys leaned forward, just slightly. “Cas.” Cassian looked up at him, the two of them meeting eyes. “Go and live, Cas. Survive, and return to me. I need my court to be a stable place again.”  There was a pause. “Are you with me?” Rhys’s voice dropped, slightly, at the question.

Cas nodded, slowly. The words came automatically, but he couldn’t quite seem to take in a breath. “I am with you.”

Rhys sat back up. He looked relaxed, in his element, but Cas could see the way that every inch of Rhys’s careless grace came from rigidly maintained control. Rhys saw exile as preferable to death or the Prison. So did Tamlin, whose grip on Rhys’s shoulder had relaxed slightly.

_ I won’t last five years. Devlon’s a dense bastard but this is some Cauldron-damned poetry. _

Azriel stepped up in front of him, hands clenched into fists, his shadows swirling around him in agitation. “No,” He said, clearly. “This is the wrong choice.”

“Azriel, what are you doing?” Cas whispered.

Azriel raised his chin, glaring at Rhys, and began to pull the shadows into himself from everywhere in the room.

The crowd gasped and murmured, moving away from him in a wide circle, letting out little screams as they realized their own shadows were being pulled from them to join the circle of roiling, fighting black smoke that Azriel stood in.

Shadows ran up his arms and clung to his wings, curled around his face, ruffled his hair, wound around the blades he held in each hand. His hazel eyes burned into Rhys’s. 

The visual was a reminder to all, Rhys included, that they were alive largely because Azriel did not _ actively  _ want any of them to die. Cassian led the armies and the two of them were considered the greatest warriors in the Night Court, but in a one-on-one fight where Azriel really wanted to kill him, Cas would have gone to his knees and begged for mercy.

It might not have been a direct threat against the life of the High Lord - none of them could ever have hurt the others, and Azriel was more upset than angry with Rhys - but it was definitely a threat against the High Families who sat staring at him with wide eyes, sinking back into their chairs as though they could melt into camouflage. 

The crowd fell silent as Azriel stared up at his second-oldest friend, his head tilted hard to the side like a puppet with cut strings, spinning the blades in his hands and then going into a slight crouch, letting his open hostility fall on the High Families and Devlon.

Even Devlon’s smug smile had melted off his face, as he, maybe for the first time, realized how much of a mask Azriel's delicate beauty had always been. Az was prepared to slaughter everyone in this room, the only Illyrian in history who might actually be able to do it and walk away.

“Yes, shadowsinger?” Rhys said mildly, but Cas could see the worry there. “Is there something you would like to say?”

“This isn’t right,” Az said, in a voice like gravel, like the promise of a dagger between the ribs. “He wasn’t acting under his own power. She went into his head and took most of him out. I saw it for myself, most of Cas was locked up inside. Whatever he did while she controlled him, it wasn’t his fault. You know better than anyone else what it means when she orders you to do something, Rhys! He’s done  _ everything _ he can to make it right. He’s been out there rebuilding with everyone else!”

“Az, stop it,” Cas hissed softly. “I can handle this. It’s okay.”

Az turned that horrifying snarl on him and Cas _flinched_. He caught himself, but Azriel had already seen it. The snarl deepened. “He’s worked harder than any of these High Families have to rebuild Velaris,” Azriel said, his voice even harder, louder, angrier. 

Cas hated the sound of Azriel losing control to his feelings, his usually empty quiet voice ragged with rage and, yes, fear. Az was so carefully controlled, spent his whole life with a voice like dripping water, calm and quiet. But right now, Cas was close enough to see that he was trembling and his voice was not quite a scream.

More shadows came along the floor to him, joining the others, until Azriel looked like he was standing in a bubbling black hell. The guards that had been standing next to Cas backed away until they reached the terrified crowd. “Why should they pass judgement if they haven’t lifted a finger in aid?”

“We didn’t even know Velaris  _ existed _ until Amarantha attacked it.” That was one of the male High Fae, and Azriel turned his eyes on him. Cas watched the man recoil.

“And how did that stop you from helping to rebuild  _ after _ she was dead? Care to explain that puzzling question to me?” There were whispers from the court around him. The High Fae man at least had the sense of shame to look away.

“Why are you so worried about this sentence, shadowsinger?” Rhys asked, subtly emphasizing his title, trying to remind him of how this should go.

“Because he’s going to die there, and it wasn’t his fault,” Azriel said stubbornly. "She wormed her way into his head-"

“It is the verdict given, shadowsinger,” Rhys said, calmly, but some of his emptiness had dropped out of his eyes. “This is how it works. You’ve witnessed these meetings before. This is what happens when I can’t be trusted to deliver an unbiased judgement myself. This verdict is a  _ mercy,  _ Azriel.” He began to push himself to standing.

“It’s  _ not _ a mercy and this isn’t right,” Az said out loud, again. There were _tears_ standing in his eyes. “He’s going to be sent there to die and I won’t ever have said-”

“Azriel, stop it!” Cas grabbed him by one arm, trying to pull him back, but one of Azriel’s shadows twisted around his wrist, another grabbed the other one, and they  _ forced  _ his hands down in front of him, a bite of pain making him hiss between his teeth. Cas stared down, where the chill of the shadows stayed wrapped, holding him still with unnatural strength.

He heard the slightest whisper-hiss as one slid along his ear.  _Ssssssorry, but you cannot interfere._

His eyes widened. That was new.

“Rhys, he’ll die before I-”

Cas fought to free his hands, growling. “Azriel, you have to stop-”  The shadows yanked him back down to his knees on the ground and he went down with a hard crack, unable to catch himself, trying to pull his wrists apart frantically. He knew Az as well as he knew himself; the shadowsinger wanted him on his knees so he wouldn’t have to worry about accidentally hitting Cas if he decided to use those blades to start removing heads.

“Cauldron be damned, Az, you have to fucking stop!” He snarled, but the shadows wound around his face too and he coughed against the cold that stole his air, ran down his throat. “Mmmf!”

“Azriel, stop it!” Mor snapped, standing up. She moved as if to go to him, but when he looked at her she wavered before whatever must be showing on his face. “You’re hurting him! This is the only way he  _ lives _ , Az!”

“For how long?” Azriel’s voice shook. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. “How long does he live in a place like Lawless, Mor, once they realize who he is? How long does he _ survive? _ ”

“That’s what  _ I  _ said,” Amren snapped, her own arms crossed. She alone did not avert her eyes from Azriel’s. She alone seemed energized by his anger rather than terrified of it. She alone seemed to be wishing he’d simply slaughter everyone and get it over with.

The cold in his lungs was too much and Cas began to cough, weakly fighting for air. Azriel looked at him and blinked, as if waking up for the first time. The shadows pulled back and he took in great gulping breaths of air that felt suddenly warm by comparison. "Has..." His voice was weak at first, but he tried to pull it together. “Has anyone considered asking _me_ how long I intend to survive while I’m there?” 

He stood again, and the shadows let him do it this time, although they remained an icy cold rope around his wrists, writhing and fighting in a reflection of Az’s anger.  “Azriel. Look at me.” When Az turned to look, the anger in his face was plain to see; volcanic, and horrifying, and absolutely helpless. “You have to stop. This is not going to end well. I’ll be fine.”

“Shadowsinger, control yourself,” Rhys said, his voice the fine edge of a blade now. “This behavior is unacceptable. You are acting irrationally and you have frightened the court. You’re better than this.”

Az shot a glare right at Rhys. “And _ you’re _ a fucking idiot, you half-breed fucking  _ High Lord. _ ”

Cas stared at him as the crowd around them gasped at the insult. “Azriel, do you have a gods-damned  _ death wish today? _ ”

“He’s one of  _ us,  _ Cas,” Azriel said a little helplessly, too far gone in his anger to control himself. "He shouldn't do this to you." Cas glanced at Rhys, who nodded imperceptibly. Cas stepped forward and put a hand on Az’s arm, still wrapped in the whispering shadows.

Azriel didn’t look at him. He snapped his wings out nearly to their full wingspan, the one drooping noticeably lower than the other, glaring Rhys down. Cas knew if he took his armor off, you’d see a new rope of scar tissue all around his shoulder blade, where Amarantha had torn the skin. He’d made a study on that scar last night, had learned that while the scar itself was a little numb, the skin around it had compensated and was sensitive to the slightest touch. 

Shadows dripped off of Azriel, slithered around, curled in wisps around his face and hands and his blades. Cas alone did not fear them. He reached out and carefully took one sword right out of his friend’s hand. Azriel let him.

“I don’t want you to die,” Azriel said softly, in a whisper. "I-"

"I don't intend to," Cas replied, just as softly.  _I want to come home to you._

Anuie, still sitting white-faced in his chair, lifted one hand. Guards began to move towards him, hands on their swords, a spark of their power in the air around them. Cas, seeing the look in his eyes and knowing it better than anyone else here, shook his head. “I wouldn’t try it if I were you,” He said over his shoulder to the guards who had been his escorts. “He’s better than all of you combined and he is  _ pissed. _ ”

“Call them off, Steward,” Rhys said quietly, but his voice carried through the crowd nonetheless. “He’s not going to do anything. Cassian has been his friend for a long time, and he’s simply upset. He will see reason and  _ stand. down _ .”

“Does  _ that  _ look like someone who doesn’t plan to do something stupid?” Anuie hissed back, gesturing with one arm. “He looks like a Cauldron-born  _ monster,  _ Rhysand. Call off your shadowsinger and I’ll call off my guards.”

“I’m  _ trying, _ ” Rhys said tightly. “Azriel. This is irrational and unlike you. I am prepared to ignore your earlier insult since it was due to your extremes of feeling in this stressful situation. As your High Lord I demand that you stand down.”

It was. It _ was  _ unlike him. He had never reacted like this before. Cas wasn’t sure if he should be flattered or afraid for his own life, to be the target of this kind of undying loyalty, this level of unbridled protective rage.

Azriel began to falter. “Rhys, we-... we just-”

“I know,” Rhys said, a little more calmly. “I know, Az. I’m sorry. But you need to stand down.”

Azriel hesitated, and the shadows finally unwound from Cas’s wrists. “Azriel,” Cas said, softly. “I can handle it. I’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.”

Azriel slowly turned to look at him, and the anger drained from his expression and became full of worry and pain. Cas took the other blade, and when a guard stepped up he handed them both over without looking away from Azriel’s eyes.

An open expression, something so full of unhidden fear, looked unnatural on Azriel, who was normally so expressionless. “It’s okay,” Cas said again, reassuringly. “Just please stop frightening everyone with that thing you’re doing with your face. It’s going to be fine. It’s okay. It’ll be okay. We're gonna be okay, Az.”

“You said that when she tried to take my wing,” Az said hoarsely. There was a murmur through the room, but Az did not seem to notice the crowd at all any longer. “You said that when she was going to take us back down into the dark. You said it’d be okay, then. You said we’d be okay together.”

“I know,” Cas said softly. There was a look on Devlon’s face now, something calculating and curious, and Cas knew he should not be so close to Azriel, should step away or act angry, but Azriel was in pain before him and Devlon's fucking bigotry didn't matter in the face of that kind of hurt. “And it would have been. We would have been together, and it would have been okay. I'm going to be fine. I'll come back to you. We'll still be-”

Az looked around the room again. “We’ll be together,” He repeated, a thoughtful look on his face. His Siphons flared, a brilliant blue, and the crowd murmured and shoved each other in an attempt to get further away from him.

“Az,” Cas said, a little more insistently, gripping onto his arm. “I said  _ stop _ . Listen to me.”

“As your High Lord,” Rhys said, more forcefully than before, “I order you for a final time to stand down. I will have you thrown into the Prison if you disobey.”

Something changed in Azriel’s face. The tension in him relaxed all at once, the shadows banished themselves, and Cas jumped a little as they swept around and over and through him, returning to their places under the feet of the crowd and along the walls. There was another gasp and murmur from the assembled fae, who stared down at the returned shadows under their feet as though they might suddenly become demons.

Az brought in his wings, killed the glow in his Siphons, and nodded, looking down. “My apologies, High Lord,” Azriel said through gritted teeth, bowing low at the waist, deliberately echoing the way Amarantha had forced her subjects to bow to her. Cas could see the way Rhys knew exactly what he was doing, and both he and Tamlin cut their eyes away in discomfort.

Azriel stepped forward and went down on his knees. He looked right into Rhys’s eyes with his own cold glare, folded his hands in front of himself, and said loudly, “Cassian might be going to Lawless, but I will go with him.”


	4. The Line

“You’ll  _ what? _ ” Rhys sat back down, all but slumping into his throne, remembering only after a second had passed to force himself into the languid, careless posture that his court expected of him. He’d never been all that fair to Tamlin, he thought; he was as weighed down by tradition and expectation as the Spring Lord was, just… different expectations.

“I’ll go with him,” Azriel repeated, his voice deceptively empty and calm. The High Families still recoiled from the fathomless anger in his face, and even Rhys struggled to make direct eye contact. “I will go into exile with Cas-... with General Cassian.”

The court was silent, staring at them, and Rhys felt his mind whirling trying to come up with something to say. Tamlin’s hand was back on his shoulder, just the slightest pressure and reassurance.

_ Let him go. Give your approval. _

_ I’m supposed to protect my brothers. _

_ Your brothers aren’t exactly making that easy. Give your approval, and take back control of your court. You need to control the moment. _

"You'll... go with him?" Rhys asked out loud, trying to buy just a few more seconds.

_ What makes you an expert on this? _

_ You forget, Rhys - I had more than half my court run from me. I didn’t take control fast enough, I didn't know how. The courts need stability right now. This court needs to know you are in charge, you are in control, even when it’s your own friends pushing you. Keep control of the moment and then we’ll figure out what… what’s his face… is trying to do. _

_ Devlon. You’re better at this than you used to be. _

_ This is what you would be telling me, if our positions were reversed. _

"If General Cassian must leave, then so should I," Azriel replied, his voice a little gentler now, some of the anger out of his eyes. He swallowed. "If my lord allows it."

_ Actually, if our positions were reversed and we hadn’t spent years forced into bed with one another, I’d probably give you terrible advice, watch you fall on your face, and laugh about it behind your back.  _

_ Good thing we ended up in bed together. Besides, when you would have, I would have done whatever the opposite of your advice was.  _ The slightest quirk of a smile on Tamlin’s face, and Rhys felt himself calm, just seeing it.

_ Wish I’d realized all of this sooner, Tamlin. _

_ What, you didn’t enjoy the last couple of centuries antagonizing each other? _

_ I didn't say  _ that...

“You are not on trial here,” Rhys said carefully, keeping his voice calm and even a little mocking. Azriel knew better, that at least he could count on - Az knew it was all an act, he’d been right there when he built the act in the first place. He and Cas had given him advice on how to be realistically terrible. “You are not subject to any verdict, shadowsinger.”

“I was by his side when he committed the acts that led to his trial,” Azriel said, clearly forcing the words out. “I aided him willingly. So I am equally responsible.”

“Works for me,” Devlon said smugly.

“Az. No.” Cas turned around, looking at Rhys searchingly. “High Lord, you can’t-”

Rhys raised one hand. “Quiet, general.” Cas looked away from him, teeth ground together almost audibly, at the formal rebuke.  _ I’m sorry, they have to see that I have authority.  _ His heartbeat was a dull, pounding thud inside his chest. Rhys felt everything was dangerously off-kilter, but the court was quieting. The High Fae families had settled.

He was taking back control.

“Shadowsinger, the general explicitly maintained throughout his trial that any actions you undertook were done at his command and while under magical influences. The Morrigan’s testimony also maintained that you were not in your right mind at the time.” He tried to put what he really wanted to say into the words, as Azriel had shielded himself so well Rhys knew he’d have had to work too hard to speak directly to his mind.  _ He was trying to protect you, you ass. _

“If the council finds General Cassian guilty, then I must be guilty, too,” Azriel said firmly. “Since he was exactly as responsible for his actions, and exactly as much in his right mind, as I was. When the shields to Velaris were opened, my voice was right there with his saying the words that called her.” He cut his eyes back towards Devlon, Rhys noticed, and the Illyrian war leader only smiled at him.

Rhys’s fingers twitched on his right hand. He could go into Devlon’s head and-

_ The court needs stability,  _ Tamlin reminded him.  _ Murdering the current leader of the Illyrians is not a good way to make the Night Lands feel stable. _

_ Is it really murder if he deserves it, Spring? _

_ I don’t think you really want me to answer that. Smart High Lords have ironclad alibis and dig deep graves, Rhys. _

_ Did your father tell you that? _

_ No. You did, about a hundred years ago. I'm pretty sure you were threatening me. _

“Fine,” Rhys said, a bit more sharply than he’d intended. “If you insist on this course of action, I’ll allow it. If only to make you cease your prattle.” 

Azriel smiled at him, his soft, ghostly true smile. Rhys felt a burst of relief.

_ You are still my brothers. I will fight for you. _

He sat back, putting his chin in his hand as he leaned on one of the arms of his throne, thoughtful. He put his most mocking, soulless smirk on his face, as comfortable as any piece of clothing he owned, something he’d learned nearly in infancy. “Guards, you will add the shadowsinger to the exiles list.”

“Don’t you need a shadowsinger…?” Anuie asked, hesitantly.

“There are others,” Rhys said evenly. “Perhaps a different shadowsinger would be more inclined to listen to his High Lord’s words, hm? Mark this, all of you: there is no member of my court who cannot be replaced.”

“You had better hope so,” Azriel said, but some of the fire and fight had gone out of him now that he was getting what he wanted. 

“I know so, shadowsinger,” Rhys said sweetly back. “It’ll be a relief to get a break from your constant intervening in my affairs.”

Azriel almost couldn't hold a straight face at that - his expression didn't change but he  _ saw  _ his shoulders shake with held-back laughter.

_ Please don’t leave me, either of you. I just got you back. I just got you back... _

Cas cleared his throat. “Azriel…” Cas and Az shared an expression that might have given them - and what they were to each other - fully away if Rhys hadn’t clapped his hands together and brought everyone’s eyes to him instead. Even so, Devlon’s expression changed, imperceptibly.

Delvon knew.

“The decision is made, and it is final. I approve of the verdict reached by the council. As your High Lord, the end choices are always to be mine, and in this I defer to their wisdom. General Cassian, Shadowsinger Azriel, I hope you enjoy Lawless. Five years is a long time for a trip, but I am told Lawless has lovely white sand beaches and wonderful weather this time of year. Although I have  _ also _ been told you must watch for knives in your back.” He smiled, lazily, although he felt nearly ready to burst out of his skin with anger and helplessness. “I know the feeling.”

_ That was unnecessary. _

_ You telling me you wouldn’t say the same to Lucien if he fucked you over like this? _

_ … I’d say worse. It would still be unnecessary. _

_ Besides, they know I'm joking. _

_ Are you? _

He was angry at them, at the council, at the way he could have so much power at his fingertips and still be hemmed in by needing to put the good of the Night Lands in front of the friendships he’d valued so much he’d nearly killed himself for them. He held up one hand, flickering his fingers just slightly. “Try not to die, gentlemen.” The guards stepped forward immediately, taking Azriel and Cassian by the arms.

They hesitated before touching Azriel, but he did not fight them. He only inclined his head, slowly. Rhys had known Azriel a long time, and knew his minute changes of expression nearly as well as Cas did. He saw the message in that nod.  _ Thank you, Rhys.  _ “Will I get my blades back when we get there?” Az asked, quietly.   


“Of course you will,” Rhys said lazily. “All of them. Not that I don’t expect you to still have a couple no one knows about on you the whole time.” Azriel blinked at him, and Rhys let his real smile show, for just a moment. “Az. You and I both know they wouldn’t find all your daggers, no one ever does. Now… both of you. Be gone.”

_ I lost them for fifty years. How is it I have to lose them again? _

_ You won’t.  _ Tamlin’s face was expressionless, but when Rhys glanced up at him, he could see the Spring Lord’s determination in his eyes, which were slightly narrowed as the guards escorted Cassian and Azriel away.  _ I don’t have a plan, yet, but I intend to come up with one. _

_ Do I get to know about the plan first, this time? Last time your plan was just creatively committing suicide. _

_ Well, I try to keep things exciting,  _ Tamlin said through the mating bond, a glimmer of a smile on his face. 

“You are all dismissed,” Rhys said, and waved to the larger crowd. “I wish to be alone.” There was a disgruntled murmur to the crowd, the sense that something about the way things had gone was not exactly what they had hoped for. 

Tamlin started to move, and Rhys caught one of the courtiers watching. He took Tamlin by the wrist, meeting the courtier's eyes. “Not  _ totally  _ alone. Stay here with me, High Lord.” Tamlin only inclined his head, very slightly, in a nod.

No member of the council was happy to see it, except maybe Amren (who smiled in a way that actually made Rhys a little uncomfortable), but they stood up and bowed to him regardless. Rhys angled his body where he sat so he was leaning towards Tamlin, watching their backs as they left. Anuie looked thoughtful, and caught Devlon by the arm, the two men leaving together.

He needed to note that and make sure he looked into it. Anuie needed to stay far away from a hard, closed mind like Devlon’s.

Lyria, the High Fae in the green dress with the red hair, did not leave with the others. She stood watching he and Tamlin, her arms crossed under her breasts, her chin held high, unmoving. Waiting until everyone else was gone and it was only the three of them. When the doors finally closed, thudding shut one by one, she allowed the smallest smile on her face. Rhys honestly couldn’t tell if she actually looked like Amarantha, or if he simply couldn’t see that braided red hair any longer without thinking of her. It made his stomach twist, a hint of fear that he buried. 

He was free now, and she was dead, and he did not have to be frightened of her ever again. This was his court. He controlled everyone in this court.

“High Lord, I would like a word.”

Rhys raised an eyebrow. “You have leave to speak freely.”

Her eyes slid over Tamlin, and the absolute derision in her gaze made Rhys shift just slightly in his chair, having to push down the defensive anger that tried to well up. “May we speak  _ privately? _ ”

“Absolutely not,” Rhys said, forcing his voice to stay the same, aware that he couldn’t quite keep the edge of annoyance out. “My mate can, and will, be present for any conversation we have. You may speak freely now or not at all.”

Her mouth twisted at the word  _ mate.  _ “Fine.” Her eyes raked over Tamlin again, and then were back to him. The look on her face was so…  _ familiar.  _ “Are you _ sure _ it’s appropriate to continually invite another High Lord here? All due respect, of course, to  _ you,  _ and to the seriousness of your… relationship. But this was not the business of the Spring Court, and High Lord Tamlin should never have come here. Complicated matters regarding internal problems are not exactly his  _ forte.  _ Your insistence on having him here is highly inappropriate.”

Rhys locked his eyes on hers. There was a challenge there, and Rhys had had one really bad fucking day so far, and he would be damned if he would let someone who looked like  _ her  _ undermine him. He let his smirk twist with a slight cruelty and slowly brought Tamlin’s wrist to his mouth. “How _ exactly _ do you believe it’s inappropriate?” He asked, softly, as he kissed the palm of Tamlin’s hand, watching the distaste on her face. “Elaborate.”

_ Rhys, this isn’t a good idea. _

_ Ssshhh. Just give me a minute, Tam. _

He lifted his hands to undo the laces at Tamlin’s sleeve, slowly unlacing them, as Lyria watched them both. He’d seen that look before, a thousand times, Under the Mountain.

_ This is my court. I control this court. _

_ Rhys-  _ Tamlin’s mental voice simply cut off as he kissed the bare skin of his wrist this time. He  _ felt  _ the rush of heat in Tamlin and smiled, just slightly, at Lyria, aware that she would catch the change in the air as well.

“It’s bad enough that you  _ dabbled _ during your captivity,” Lyria said, and Rhys found himself impressed at the amount of toxin she could have dripping off a single word. He let his lips trace a pattern of scars along that thin skin, where the veins showed so close to the surface. When Tamlin tried to pull his arm back, Rhys tightened his grip until he stopped. 

“I’d say I did more than dabble,” Rhys said smoothly.

Lyria’s eyes narrowed, but they had gone not to Rhys’s own gaze but to Tamlin’s arm where he touched it. “I understand that the Cauldron chooses mates and you cannot be held… responsible for such a poor choice. But why bring him here  _ now?  _ Surely you should end  _ dalliances _ and look to the future of your line. A High Lord should be concerned with finding a suitable female to carry on his line. Especially a half-breed.”

_ Amarantha had called it a dalliance, too,  _ Rhys thought. And she’d called him a half-breed. Amarantha had known that he had wings but had never asked him to show them, had told him more than once that he was half an animal to her, that half-breed meant half a male, half a dog. Rage lit in him. How  _ dare  _ she presume to decide what Rhysand could or could not do in his own court, and to whom? How dare she?

_ I am Rhysand, High Lord of Night, and all of you are only here because I want you to be. _

“Besides,” She said with mock carelessness, watching Tamlin as though he were an insect. “You could still… dabble with him, on the side. You wouldn’t be the first High Lord to keep someone.”

“Tamlin is not my  _ mistress, _ Lyria,” Rhys said, with a warning note in his voice, fighting the urge to simply laugh out loud at the thought. There was a shimmer of humor along the bond with Tamlin, although there was something else underneath it, a worry and nervousness Rhys was pretending he didn’t notice.

Azriel and Cas would be sent away and he could not stop that, he needed to keep his court running to recover what he had lost Under the Mountain, and before he could even begin to think that problem through, here stood another one. 

A red-haired female High Fae, a little shorter than the average, with eyes that looked at him and judged what he had with Tamlin as something  _ beneath her.  _

“Well,” She said airily. “Not yet, he isn’t. But when you agree to a suitable female…”

“What sort of suitable female?” He asked, his voice very carefully controlled. “I suppose you think it should be you?” He said tilting his head to one side, letting a bit of black hair fall over one eye just so. He used his grip on Tamlin’s arm to pull him forward, just slightly. As Tamlin leaned over him, he slid his hand up, his fingertips just resting over the hair at the nape of his neck.

Tamlin, beside him, had his eyes on Lyria, too, but they were distant, as though he stood somewhere far away watching himself. Rhys knew he should be alarmed by that look, knew that he’d seen it on Tamlin’s face before, in Amarantha’s bed or when she showed off her control of him in front of the court, but it was too late - he’d risen to Lyria’s bait and now he could not show weakness.

Tamlin of all fae should understand having to prove to your court that you could rule them.

“Absolutely not,” Lyria snapped, but he’d caught her off guard and it showed in her face. She’d thought  _ exactly  _ that. Or, if not her, then a member of her family. Half the High Families were probably intending to maneuver someone into his path, as they’d been doing, without success, since he first took over as High Lord. “But this is unacceptable. He should not be here. I am not the only High Fae to think so.”

“Then I suggest you have them come and speak to me themselves,” Rhys smiled, and knew she saw the threat in it. This was why he preferred Velaris. In Velaris, no one cared about the future of his line. He didn’t have to  _ control _ Velaris. The city had welcomed Tamlin’s presence in restaurants or bars or just out in the street with open arms. The owner and operator of Rhys’s favorite restaurant had asked Tamlin to grow purple roses in front, to show her support for the union of Spring and Night.

The high color in Tamlin’s face had nearly done Rhys in, watching him politely do as requested, stammering and blushing like a child. Seeing Tamlin embarrassed had always been one of Rhys’s favorite things, but it was definitely for different reasons, now.

The Court of Nightmares, unfortunately, would rapidly turn into worse than the Autumn Court without someone to steer. Fifty years had turned what was already a difficult-to-control group of ambitious plotters into a nest of venomous snakes out for blood.

“Rhys-” Tamlin started, but Rhys pulled his head down a little further and leaned up to kiss his neck, whispering “Sssshhh” into his warm skin. He _ felt _ the way the pleasure of it lit up his mate's body. He could feel that his grip had gotten too tight, but with Amarantha’s red hair in front of him, with someone saying her words, with someone  _ suggesting he was not in control,  _ he could not stop himself. 

This was  _ his court.  _ He made the decisions, here.

Lyria, and anyone else who thought like her, needed to be shown that what  _ they _ thought had no bearing on what he would do. He took perverse pleasure in watching Lyria’s disgust deepen as he kissed Tamlin’s neck again, let his tongue flick out just slightly in the spot Tamlin liked best, that hollow spot just under the line of his jaw, and heard the other man take in a sudden breath.

_ Not in front of her, Rhys. _

_ Relax. It’s just your body reacting. It doesn’t mean anything. _

_ Because you're irresistible? Rhys, I'm not some inexperienced maiden- _

_ Just give me a minute. I need to do this. I’m making a point. _

“I will go where I please,” Rhys said, forcing absolute confidence in his power and his position into his voice. He let his hand slide down around Tamlin’s neck slightly, and began to undo the buttons of Tamlin’s high-necked shirt one by one without even looking, looking lazily back at Lyria.

It occurred to him, the way the old memories sometimes popped up without warning, that it was Tamlin he’d taught himself to do this on. They’d been practicing, during one the times one of them had been staying with the other, with the idea that it might come in handy with females. In retrospect, though, they’d both been drunk as hell and at least one of them had probably been trying to get up the nerve to touch the other. He thought about Tamlin, saying that he’d dropped desire to be lovers for friendship, thinking Rhys had wanted nothing more than that.

_ Mother’s heartbeat, how did I not figure out we wanted each other before we were in Amarantha’s bed?  _

Tamlin did not push his hand away or stop him.  _ Rhys, I- _

_ Hold still. _ He felt Tamlin’s body tense at the order, but he stayed where he was. He had  _ definitely crossed a line,  _ but the anger that settled around the edges of Lyria’s careful courtier’s expression seemed worth it, in the moment.

“Of course you will,” Lyria drawled, in Amarantha’s  _ exact voice.  _ If he smelled her vanilla smell, he’d lose his mind and tear Lyria apart. “This is  _ your _ court, after all. I only offer useful advice.”

They had to know he was in control here, that Rhys had come back to his court and intended to _rule it._ That even if he was about to lose Cas and Az, he would still be in control, he wasn’t taking orders from Tamlin any more than he was from anyone else. And he definitely wasn’t taking advice from someone with _her_ hair, _her_ narrow eyes, _her_ face.  “I will do what I please. I will bed who I please. You are in my court, Lyria. Just be grateful I don’t make you bow to _him_ , too. Which I could do.”

“I acknowledge that,” Lyria said, her voice chill even as her eyes lifted to the reveal of the scars that still lingered around Tamlin’s neck, the result of Mor simply running out of power trying to heal him after they’d broken off that silver cuff with its spikes. No, it wasn’t just his imagination; she did look like Amarantha, enough that he wondered if they shared blood. 

If they did, he’d have her banished.

_ He doesn’t belong to you,  _ Rhys thought, not sure if he was thinking it to Lyria or Amarantha any longer. His mind felt lighter than air, as though it were floating away from him.

_ Rhys- please- _

Rhys used the collar of his shirt to pull him down a little further and kissed him, right in front of her. There was something electric in the moment their mouths met, about kissing him here in front of someone who clearly loathed it, right here in his court, something that pushed him to deepen the kiss, even as Tamlin’s thoughts seemed almost to blank out. There was a spike of desire along their mating bond, along with-

_ shame- _

“I will speak with Anuie and see if perhaps he can talk some sense into you,” Lyria said, each word clipped off at the end and cold.

“Go ahead and do that,” Rhys said with his smug smile, nuzzling against Tamlin’s face just slightly. Something cold began to grip his heart and he sat up in his throne, leaving his hand where it was, fingers sliding up the soft hair at the back of his neck, holding him in place. He had gone too far. He had done something wrong, but he couldn't shake how good it felt just knowing she was watching and could do nothing, now.

She had to know Tamlin didn’t belong to her anymore.

He’d gone too deeply into the version of himself he played for this nest of vipers. Her and the ghost of Amarantha he could nearly see in every move she made, they had to know, to see that it was his court. “Feel free. I look forward to seeing his face when he realizes you expect him to  _ ask me who I intend to bed next. _ Suggest his presence is inappropriate again and I will ensure you are the first to kneel to High Lord Tamlin's authority, which is equal to my own outside this court. Be gone, Lyria. You are dismissed.”

He could hear Tamlin’s harsh breathing next to him, felt the tension with which he was holding himself still as Rhys’s fingertips trailed along the scars on his neck. Could smell the green around him, the scent of the deep woods and some deeper animal smell that Rhys had discovered he loved, the desire in the air between them. But he still did not move, and Rhys could feel that not all his shaking was from fear. 

“He’s mine.” Rhys realized a moment too late that it had not been a private thought, that he had instead said it out loud. 

Lyria bowed, the exact amount that indicated respect for his position and not a centimeter more, an inscrutable fascination on her face, and left. When the door closed behind her, they were truly alone.  

As soon as she was gone, he felt Tamlin  _ rip  _ himself free, stumbling back and away from him. Rhys turned his head to look and saw, for the first time, the way Tamlin’s face had gone pale, but for the high color in his cheekbones. Realized what the loose laces and pushed-up sleeve, the buttons open to the middle of his chest revealing the skin underneath,  _ meant _ . What he had done. Felt his own terror through their bond, terror and memory, shame and lust. 

He had treated Tamlin like a toy in his court, had said Tamlin  _ belonged _ to him, just like… 

_ Just like she treated me. _

“Oh, shit,” Rhys said faintly.

Tamlin, his face white, just stood there breathing in audible gasps, slightly curled into himself. He slowly raised his eyes to look at Rhys. Those green eyes were clouded with want, and fear. Along the bond, his self-hatred fought lust for supremacy.

The self-hatred won, but only barely.

“Spring,” Rhys said softly, his heart pounding. “I’m so sorry.”

_ I don’t know what happened. I don’t know- _

Tamlin’s mind slammed shut against his, and he was gone.


	5. Not to Blame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Some self-injury and one heck of a trauma breakdown

Lucien was in Tamlin’s study finishing up some paperwork, his sword singing gently in the back of his mind, a constant presence that he could no longer imagine life without. 

Even if it  _ was _ still annoying.

He signed his name to a few documents, approving some shipments of grain to villages in the furthest corners that still struggled to recover even this long after the end of Amarantha’s reign. He tried to remind himself that it had only been seven months, not even a full year, and fifty years had left much of the Spring lands trampled, fallow, or otherwise neglected. 

There were bandits operating alongside their shared border with the Summer Court, in the northwest. Lucien sighed and wrote a letter promising to come inspect personally and signed Tamlin’s name to it, a perfect forgery.

Although… was it a forgery if Tamlin had explicitly told him, multiple times, to do it? Being Regent rather than emissary had been far more pleasant than he’d ever admit to Tamlin’s face. Spring may as well be his court, some days, and Lucien had discovered he was actually pretty good at running it. 

The people still loved and respected Tamlin - the people, if not the courtiers, and especially since Tamlin, after going back to Rhys and giving up on his plan of simply pretending nothing had happened,  had declared the Tithe indefinitely suspended - but they  _ knew  _ Lucien now, even more than before. They trusted him to deal with problems like the empty fields and overrun woods, and Lucien was sort of proud of himself for rising to the occasion, and a little worried at how naturally all of it came to him. 

He told himself he’d been by Tamlin’s side for so long it was just second nature to understand Tamlin’s job, but… there was more to it, wasn’t there? It seemed all too easy, and Tamlin sometimes watched him in a way that made Lucien wonder if he had noticed that it was too easy, too.

He’d have to take Tamlin with him to deal with the bandit problem. He should be back today, after the verdict for the Illyrian general was handed down. Lucien frowned, thinking of the look in Cassian’s eyes when he and Azriel had walked into the library. It didn’t really make sense to put him on trial; anyone who had seen him would have seen how little of him there really had been left in control.

But having someone to punish was perhaps what really mattered, more than it being the right person. Rhys had taken their chance to tear Amarantha apart away. While many were grateful, others would have liked the opportunity themselves. 

The bandit issue had been getting worse since Amarantha’s death. Some of those who had been rounded up and locked up in Amarantha’s tunnels had come home intending to simply restart their lives. Others had… struggled, and were currently trying to recreate the ‘steal or be stolen from’ life they’d lived in the dark even now, back out in the light. While all Spring and Summer had to deal with were the bandits, Lucien had heard that Dawn was dealing with even worse than that.

Lucien shook himself, forcing the thoughts out of his head, and went back to work finishing the documentation.

“There,” He said, sitting back, looking around. Tamlin’s study had always been a mess, but he’d done a decent amount of cleaning since he had started really acting as Regent, and at least the mess seemed more organized now, and he’d managed to convince Tamlin to take out the blankets and pillows he’d been sleeping on in here. “I think that’s it for today. Want to go for a ride?”

_ Which kind?  _ The sword’s voice was teasing. 

Lucien snorted, but couldn’t quite keep the smile off his face. “Horseback. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Tamlin will be back for dinner and I’ll need to go over tomorrow’s agenda with him. He’s going with me to check on the northwest corner. Any bandits we might capture will respect the actual High Lord more than me, just because he was…” Lucien swallowed. “He was Under the Mountain, too.”

Tamlin would go there with all the reddish neck scars from the spikes and the others that Amarantha had carved into his skin visible. They respected Tamlin for surviving, and Rhys too - more than they respected any of those who had simply stood by and been unable to stop it. Sometimes, Lucien struggled not to just start shouting at everyone that Tamlin would still be down there if it weren’t for him, if he hadn’t spent two years combing Prythian to put together a power that could stand up to her when all of theirs were gone.

But a rescue was not the same thing as surviving the dark, and Lucien knew it.

“ _ Are you sure you’ll be too busy? What if Tamlin doesn’t come back for hours and hours? _ ” There was a shimmer in front of him, a vision of a woman standing in front of his desk, the sense that the song had gotten a little louder in his mind even as the sword in its scabbard was more insubstantial, slightly faded.

He could almost see the lean muscles, her arms bare in the sleeveless white linen dress she wore, seemingly a single piece of fabric. Only a small clasp at her right hip held the fabric on her. If he undid that clasp, the linen would fall away, slip off her shoulders like silk. Her dark skin would be sun-kissed and warm, as though she were still in the ruins in the Summer Court, sunning herself on that white platform. He could see, slightly transparent, the smile on her face, her blank white eyes on his, the curved shell of her ear, as she play-acted at mortality.

She tilted her head, and a bit of her dark hair slid across a high cheekbone, lingered around her mouth.

Lucien took in a breath, forced himself to count to five, let the breath out again. He thought of all the reasons they absolutely did not have time for this. He swallowed, and then went to push himself standing, intending to tell her to cut it out and go back to being a really irritating sword that he could never put down for the rest of his life. Her fingertips slid over the clasp again and she bit down on her lower lip. 

Lucien promptly forgot everything he was about to say. “Well,  _ maybe _ -”

An animal's shriek of pain shook the walls of Rosehall.

He found himself pushed backwards by the rush of air before he heard the thunderclap sound of its displacement alongside a horribly loud scraping, falling over his chair and smacking into the floor, wincing as he landed badly on his left arm. His sword was a solid presence at his side again, an angry, worried discordant note in his head.

“What the-” He pushed himself back up, papers still fluttering in the air. The  _ desk itself,  _ that massive thing Tamlin’s father had ordered built right into the room, had been pushed back by the air. That had been the scraping noise.

As for the source of the thunderclap, this wasn’t the first time Lucien had felt something like that. And he knew exactly what it meant.

“Tamlin?”

The High Lord of Spring had appeared in the middle of the floor, wearing one of his more formal outfits, laces undone at one wrist, the scars around his neck showing above his unbuttoned shirt. Lucien could see them spiralling to his waist and slightly below, the rest hidden under the waistband of his pants, as Tamlin simply tore his own shirt off, the sound of the fabric ripping too loud in a suddenly silent room. 

He curled over on his knees, palms on the floor, a constant low growl coming from his throat, his body shifting in and out of the beast form as though he couldn’t quite control it. Lucien had seen this version of Tamlin before, but not since Feyre’s death, not since he’d gone Under the Mountain.

Lucien had long experience getting the hell out of Tamlin’s way when his rage flared, but the High Lord was currently blocking him from making it to the door. 

“Tamlin, what’s wrong? Where’s Rhys?”

“I. am not.  _ property! _ ” Tamlin snarled, digging his fingernails into the floor beneath him, fingernails that rapidly became claws and dug grooves into the wood. Lucien winced, taking a step back, bumping into the chair again.  The child in Lucien, eternally trying to avoid Beron's latest cruelty, whispered in a sudden fear,  _ don’t make him mad. Figure out what he wants and give it to him. Don’t push him. You’ll just make it worse. Don't push. _

“Tamlin,” Lucien said gently. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“I don’t  _ belong to anyone anymore! _ ” Tamlin shouted, digging his claws in even more deeply, an animal growl louder than any fae throat edging his voice. He let out that animal's scream again, shifting wildly between beast and man. “I am  _ the High Lord of Spring! _ ” 

“You are,” Lucien said soothingly. “You are.”

“I’m free- I’m not down there anymore- I’m _ free _ -”

“Tamlin, stop, you just need to take a breath-”

Tamlin turned, finally, to look at him. His eyes were wide and furious, the gold flecks inside the green glowing brightly. His scars stood out, slightly darker spots on skin that had gone white with anger and fear. His skin was lined with light, but it was not the brilliant yellow of sunshine. The light around him instead was a dirty, rusty red. The air crackled and spat sparks. The hair on the back of Lucien’s neck and along his arms stood up, as though he were standing next to a lightning strike. His heart ached, suddenly, as though he were fighting to breathe through smoke.

The air around them smelled like a forest fire.

“Lucien?” Tamlin spoke hoarsely, a note of fear and pleading in his voice, and Lucien felt himself freeze at the unfamiliar tone. Lucien knew Tamlin’s temper as well as he'd known his own mind, but this... wasn’t anger. “Are you trapped? Did I trap you here?”

Lucien had spent most of his life being asked leading questions designed to force him to answer the wrong way, or questions in which he’d only learn too late there wasn’t even a right answer at all. Beron had excelled at asking something that seemed innocent until you realized you had walked right into a trap. Eris was essentially a professional at manipulating people by asking questions that led the direction he wanted them to go. Lucien felt himself instinctively, and instantly, weigh whether the truth or a lie would be more likely to make things worse. 

But... Tamlin had been trying to get better, and all his trying wouldn’t matter if Lucien never gave him a chance to prove it. So he nodded, trying to ignore his terrified heartbeat. “I don’t think I am now, but… yes. You did.”

A flare of the beast, that huge hulking creature, that dropped as quickly as he’d seen it. It took all his internal strength not to flinch, but Lucien stood strong. Beron would have watched him with cold eyes, devising some way to punish him for not showing the right amount of fear. Tamlin, before he had gone Under the Mountain, would have asked more questions, talked him in circles, somehow convinced him his feelings weren’t true and he’d made it all up, and not even realized he was doing it. 

_ This _ Tamlin only nodded and took in a deep, shuddering breath. “How? Tell me. Tell me how I made you feel trapped.”

"Is now really the time? Something happened to you-”

“Tell. Me.”

_ Careful, lover,  _ his sword hissed at him, its song discordant and shrill.  _ The red haired queen is talking inside his head. He feels her hands on him. _

Lucien pressed his lips into a thin line, eyes jumping from Tamlin to the door and back again. He couldn't walk away from that. He never had before. “He’s asking for honesty,” He said softly. 

_ Is honesty safe? _

“Sometimes. If he’s hearing her again I need to drown her out." He began to edge around the desk, trying to make it out before the rage he could feel under Tamlin’s skin exploded. “There was nowhere else I could go - my life was forfeit. So anything you wanted, I did. I stayed here with you, and I don’t  _ regret it,  _ but… where else could I go?”

“I didn’t know you saw it that way.” Tamlin’s voice was thin. The smell of ash and smoke grew stronger. “I thought I was your friend. W-when you came to me for help, I thought you were coming to a  _ friend _ . I’m no better than-”

“You _ were _ my friend. You  _ are  _ my friend. And you are infinite leagues better than her. But you were also the only reason I was alive. You… made sure I knew it. You sent me places I was terrified to go.”

“The Autumn Court.”

“Yes... because you were the only reason I’d survive going there. I think you  _ wanted  _ me to remember that.” 

“I didn’t want to see Eris,” Tamlin mumbled.

“What? Why?”

_ Does he need to answer that question?  _ The sword asked.  _ You’ve met Eris. _

“Tamlin, you were…”

“Controlling you,” Tamlin interrupted, heavily, and it wasn’t a question. Lucien couldn’t decide if he was terrified or relieved to hear him say it out loud, admit to it. “Just like my father did me. Just like Amarantha… By making you think you  _ belonged  _ to the Spring Court. That you  _ owed me  _ the times I forced you to be afraid, as some kind of… payment for saving your life.”

“Yes,” Lucien said, barely breathing. “But not like her. You’re not like her.” He had almost made it to the door. He could feel the air thick with that terrible electricity, the moments before he would be torn apart. 

There was a long pause, and Lucien was sure, absolutely sure that the air would explode again, and he’d be the thing hit by the desk this time. He put his hands up slowly, hoping to at least catch himself. His chest  _ burned _ and the scent of smoke became harder to overcome. Lucien  _ hurt _ , in a spot just behind his heart, as smoke filled the room. For a moment he wondered if the grand desk was about to light on fire or if Tamlin was going to take all the air. “Get out,” Tamlin said, in a quiet voice. “Get out of here. Please. I’m so... I’m so  _ sorry _ , Lucien.”

Lucien’s eyes snapped back to him. He’d never heard Tamlin apologize like that before. After he’d lost his temper, sometimes, he’d try to make up for it. But… not this. Not that quiet acknowledgement.

“I can’t undo it, anything I did to you.” Tamlin rested his forehead on the floor. “I just... Just please don’t be in the room right now. Please. Leave, if you want to. It’s your right.”

“Tamlin… I’m not  _ going _ anywhere,” Lucien said, even as he continued his slow progress towards the door. “I’m here with you now as your Regent, as your Second, because I want to be here. I’m your Regent now because of who you _ are _ , not who you were. If I had wanted to leave you I would have left while you were still down there. What happened in the Night Court? Something to do with the verdict? I know that was today. Talk to me.”

“Lucien, just  _ go _ . I need to be alone.”

“Tamlin, we talked about this, you need to try-”

“I need to be  _ alone _ , Lucien.”

“Where is Rhysand?”

Tamlin snarled at the name. “Get. Out. _Now_.”

_ You should listen to him,  _ his sword said, a note of alarm in its song.  _ Talk to him later.  _

“Fine,” Lucien snapped. “I am trying to leave.” He turned the door knob without taking his eyes off of Tamlin’s back, the claws coming and going from his hands, the shadow of the beast rising above him. “Tamlin. I-” The door swung open behind him and Lucien jerked his hand back as the doorknob was ripped out of his hand by the motion.

Tamlin turned, once more, to look at him. The anger was back in his eyes, but it was distant, focused on something far beyond him. “Stop talking! You- You don’t get to give me  _ orders  _ anymore!”

Lucien felt the air twist around him, felt himself  _ shoved  _ into the hallway, stumbling to a stop only when he caught himself with his hands against the other wall, and the door slammed shut behind him. 

Lucien turned slowly around, staring at the closed door.  _ ‘You don’t get to give me orders anymore’?  _ He thought, feeling dazed. "I don’t think he was talking to me."

_ No,  _ the sword said a little sadly.  _ He’s talking to her. _

There was a roar, so loud that it shook the paintings hung on the hallway walls. Another thunderclap shook Rosehall to its very foundations, the shattering of glass audible from inside Tamlin’s study. He could hear wood crashing, things being thrown with such force that the walls themselves shook with the impact.

_ We should go have that horseback ride now,  _ his sword said, but Lucien didn’t move. His metal eye could see the way Tamlin’s powers were blanketing the room, wrapping it up in safety even as he ripped it apart. His good eye saw only the closed door. Tamlin making sure that whatever he did in there went no further than the room.

The air still smelled like wildfire, ashes where spring should be, and Lucien felt sure suddenly that he would be swept up in it. His chest still ached as his heart pounded.

“Well...shit,” Lucien whispered. “Been a while since he’s done this. At least he made sure no one was in the room first.”

Rosehall shook again, and Lucien watched a great crack burst in the ceiling above him, a bit of plaster floating down like snowflakes. The crack widened until it ran down the wall and to the floor underneath his feet. 

Lucien stumbled to the side away from it. Once he was a few feet further down the hallway, the crack simply… undid itself, the floor fitting back together seamlessly, the dark line in the wall undoing itself until it was pristine again. “What just happened _? _ ”

_ I believe your lord would like you to get the hell away from his study right now,  _ the sword snapped, its song off-key with worry.  _ So I suggest you get. _

Another roar, a horribly loud scraping noise, and then a crash that sounded like Tamlin had brought the whole wall down. Lucien winced. The ripping, grinding, tearing noises of a room being demolished were all too familiar, and Lucien felt the old dread settling into his shoulders. Damn it, he’d been doing so much  _ better _ .

Although… Lucien had never told Tamlin how he felt before, had always been too afraid of what it would do to his temper. And Tamlin had… apologized.

Tamlin had worked hard to learn how to control his anger, since he’d come out from Under the Mountain. Once he’d gone to Rhys, he had started to learn how to  _ talk _ about his problems-

The roar faded, the crashing sounds began to slow. Eventually there was a soft thump, and then silence. “I don’t dare go back in there,” Lucien said faintly, aware that all the color had faded from his face. “What the fuck  _ happened _ up there in the Night Court?”

_ I imagine we’ll find out soon enough,  _ the sword said, softly. _ I suppose this means our dinner plans are no longer quite so pressing? _

Lucien snorted, walking away, placing his feet carefully to make as little noise as possible, feeling absurd, like he was a child trying to tiptoe past his father’s study, praying to nothing in particular that he wouldn’t be the one who angered Beron today. When he was little,  _ really  _ little, Eris would sometimes come get him, finger to his lips, and sneak him away somewhere safe. They'd go riding or play hide-and-find in the woods, his long-since-grown brother indulging him, until they'd been turned on each other so often all that affection had been burned away. “I cannot begin to grasp why you would think I still want to, after _ that _ . Besides, he won’t be in there all day. He’ll come back out by dinner, he always does.”

_ Maybe I was hoping you would need physical reassurance? Reminder of our emotional connection? A form of comfort and coping? A girl can dream. _

“You are not a girl.” Lucien took a set of stairs, heading determinedly for the outside. Horseback ride it would be. He could clear his head out there, try to think of a way to get Tamlin to talk about it. Or at least stay out of his way until he calmed down. 

Behind him, Rosehall shook again, and he heard the animal scream echoing faintly through the building.

_ Do you not want me to be? I could be a male, too, if that’s what you want. I told you, the form is just a game. I’m a sword. I’m your sword. _

Lucien paused, in the path that led up to Rosehall’s grand front doors. “No, I… female is better.”

 The image of a woman shimmered in front of him, just barely, in that white linen dress with the clasp hanging precariously loose on one hip. The image of the woman crooked one eyebrow, a mischievous smile on her face, and undid the clasp, letting the linen garment fall away and slide into a crumpled pile at her feet.

He knew he was the only one that could see her, but he felt his face redden nonetheless. “Well, if you’re going to ask  _ nicely _ ,” He said finally, his voice slightly hoarse, and headed for the stables.

* * *

Rhys was somewhere in his mind, trying to get his attention, faint from the distance between them and the block Tamlin had thrown together. Tamlin growled and poured all his fear and anger and self-hatred down the bond, tried to drown Rhys in it. 

His mate's attempts to reach him went silent.

He tore apart his father’s stupid fucking desk, the desk he’d put up with for  _ centuries _ now, broke it into pieces and threw them around the room. Tore his claws down the walls, felt Rosehall quake against his anger. He heard nothing but the roar inside his head. Papers flew everywhere as he threw air, burst apart furniture into splinters, tore everything in his study down the studs. He wrapped the room up in his magic, protected it, shielded his rage from leaving this room. Once Lucien was gone he could scream to his heart’s content, suck away all his own air and then let it back in a thunderclap, let the wind roar until he wasn’t sure if what he heard was his own voice or the wind itself.

_ You trapped Lucien here because he  _ owed  _ you something. _

_ (how did it feel when he had his hands on you? you loved it) _

_ You didn’t make Rhys stop touching you. _

Tamlin could feel even the beast wearing down, the anger beginning to fade. He tried to hold onto it, tried desperately to claw back the rage, but it left him. It left him, and he was on all fours, a male High Fae again, his clothing as shredded as everything else in the room, panting in the middle of the chaos he’d created, covered in a cold sweat.

_ Lucien was afraid of you. _

_ You didn’t stop Rhys. _

_ (you’re absolutely shameless) _

He hadn’t pulled away. When Rhys’s grip had tightened, Tamlin had gone still, had let him show off in front of the Night Court female. Had stood there, his skin electric where Rhys touched it, feeling his desire rise even as the shame did, two feelings so twined together he could not quite pull them apart.

_ (this is your fault, you didn’t stop him) _

Tamlin clawed back a sob, bit his own lip until he drew blood to hold it back.

He had used Lucien’s past to keep him close, had made him feel  _ trapped here  _ in the Spring Court, made him feel like he didn’t have any way out. He’d used anger to scare him away from uncomfortable questions, he’d been everything he hated in his own father. 

But he'd always been afraid that if the only thing that held Lucien was whether or not he was worth staying for, that Lucien would  _ leave _ .

_ You didn’t want Lucien to find help from anyone else. You’re just like her. _

_ You didn’t stop him. You didn’t want him to stop.  _

_ (it's your fault he didn’t) _

Things seemed oddly faded, as though any moment now it would all go away and it had never been real.

_ Are you even out from Under the Mountain? _

When he slammed his hands into the floor to push himself up, he accidentally forced pieces of broken glass into his palms and hissed at the spike of pain. He dug his palms in harder, relishing the hurt he deserved, that brought the world around him back into focus. It helped to dry his eyes, and ground down the feelings that fought to rise to the surface.

_ (it's your fault. everyone knows what you are. did you think it would all just go away?) _

Eventually he sat slowly up, picking the bits of glass out one by one. He focused on it, tried to put all of his mind on the little snaps of pain as he found each shard and carefully worked it out. 

His jaw was set, and he ground his teeth together to keep his expression calm.

_ (all you’ve ever done is chase after someone to love you) _

He’d make sure Lucien knew he didn’t owe him anything, not now and not then and not ever. He’d make sure Lucien came and went as he pleased from now on. He’d wanted to go visit the Day Court - Tamlin would make sure he understood that he could just _ go _ , whenever he wanted, he didn’t need to ask what was a good time or get permission.

The other thing, though…

_ (don't you know by now that you don't deserve it?) _

She laughed, inside his head. She was always laughing.

_ (i was the only love you ever deserved) _

He’d held himself still, leaned down to let Rhys kiss his neck, even tilted his head for the final kiss. If Rhys had pushed it any further, Tamlin genuinely could not have said he would have stopped him. He’d let Rhys touch him,  _ use him  _ to show off in front of that woman, and felt his body rise to it. Even now his skin felt a little too thin, his nerves too close to the surface. 

_ I’ll never get out from Under the Mountain. She was right. Part of me is still there, part of me is always going to be there, and part of him is, too. _

_ (would you like to see how dark it can get inside your head?) _

“Please no,” He said out loud, and jumped to hear his own voice in the silence.

_ (do you beg him on your knees?) _

"Please  _ stop. _ "

_ (do you like taking orders? you're so good at it) _

"Leave me  _alone!"_

He didn’t know how long it had been. Rhys was being quiet, if he could even get through the layers Tamlin had wrapped himself in, that first blast of all the terrible things he was feeling.

He’d learned how to shield himself - every High Fae did, if they wanted to be at court without being eaten alive by a daemati. But he wasn’t sure if he was shielding himself now or if there was simply too much darkness in him for Rhys to find his way in from so far away.

_ I don’t belong to anyone anymore. _

_ (you’ll always belong to me) _

Tamlin growled, trying to feel the anger again, to call up the beast. The anger had felt like home. But it wouldn’t come, he couldn’t force it to the surface any longer. It was too tied up in Amarantha, in the knowledge that punishing others, hurting them, holding them against their will and pretending it was something else, was something  _ she _ did. Something he didn’t want to be any longer.

He’d never wanted to be his father, or be like Amarantha. The longer he was High Lord, that tendency towards temper and anger had become something darker, something worse. He was going to be better. He was going to get  _ better.  _ Right now, though, the anger would have been a comfort, and it was gone. He couldn’t seem to get it back.

Instead he felt a dark stain spreading along the inside of his mind, something edged in violet and in red, trying to push him down under the water. Rosehall groaned around him, his manor in pain alongside him. He could feel the trees in the forest shiver in an unsettling echo of his skin.

_ I was the villain.  _

_ (no better than me) _

_ I kept him trapped in obligations to me. I’m the only reason my mate’s mother and sister are dead. My refusing Amarantha was the reason she took Rhysand to her bed. Lucien said he saw other times, other versions of me.  _

_ He wouldn’t tell me what happened in them. Was I the villain in those, too? Is that it? _

_ (you have always chased after whatever you could get. why should we treat you any other way?) _

Tamlin slowly raised his head, staring around at the ruin he'd made of his father's study. He'd used fear to bring Feyre here, and had been surprised that his last-ditch effort to free himself had resulted not just in her falling for him, for the magic and wonder of a fae world compared to the dull and drab mortal one, but that he had fallen for her, too. And in the end, she was dead because of him... because he'd done to her what he'd done to Lucien, and not even realized he was doing it. He'd trapped her in obligations to keep here here, hadn't he? 

_ Am I always the villain? _

Part of him  _ wanted  _ to be touched in front of everyone. No matter what Rhys said, there was a part of him that hadn’t left Amarantha’s throne room, hadn’t forgotten the night she had trailed her fingertips along his back and whispered  _ your desire will consume you  _ while he stood there in front of the court, feeling the thrill of it up his spine, the fear that the court might see mixing with a darker hope that they  _ would _ until he could no longer tell one from the other.

Tamlin got up, eventually, and stared around himself at the ruin of his study, the wreck he had created, still breathing in harsh pants, sweat drying on his skin, the occasional bit of blood dripping from the wounds in his palms to the floor. His father’s desk, lying in bits throughout the room. He’d ruined the study before, of course, although not the desk. He’d pick the mess up himself. His anger was his and his alone. He’d have to find Lucien later and apologize again. 

It didn’t matter that he wasn’t very good at it, he would  _ apologize,  _ because he was going to be  _ better now.  _ Lucien had been right - he’d been doing better, finding the words to say, calming himself down. But none of that mattered if he didn't  _ keep being better. _

Tamlin’s hand lifted to his neck, where Rhys had kissed him. He let his fingertips rest there, just slightly. Closed his eyes and remembered the look of disgust on her face, the carefully braided red hair. He let himself believe, for just a moment, that it was Rhys’s mouth on his skin, brushing just against the spot under his jaw. just thinking about it made the electricity spike through him again. He felt himself begin to harden remembering Lyria’s eyes on them, the way she had watched as Rhys had touched him just to show her that he could.

He let one hand run across his stomach and up under his shirt, eyes still closed. He found himself imagining it was Rhys’s hand, the two of them sitting on that black throne with all the court watching, his mate’s fingertips trailing down slowly between his legs-

_ (you fucking whore) _

****"**** _Damn_ it!"

Tamlin jerked his hand back, staring down at the faint red smear from his palm he’d left across his stomach. Face flushed, he picked up the one unbroken thing in the room so far as he could tell, a vase that must have fallen just right. He threw it at the wall with a half-animal scream, watching it shatter. He snapped and brought it back, intact. Threw it again. Screamed. 

Rosehall shook on its foundations, cracked and groaned and cried out along with him.

“I don’t belong to anyone anymore,” Tamlin said firmly, but his voice was faint and worn from screaming. “I’m not down there any longer. I don’t have to take commands. I don’t have to like it. I can be better. I can get better. I don’t have to like it.”

_ (but you love the way i hurt you) _

_ Let me speak to you,  _ Rhys’s voice, something so faint he could hardly hear it, finally made it through the black well inside of Tamlin’s mind, louder than her ghost. He hadn't even noticed Rhys getting through the shields. He hadn't even realized you could _do_ that from so far away, even with a mating bond.  _ Let me see you.  _

Tamlin did not answer him, not right away. He just stood there, staring at the broken pieces of pottery. He threw the vase another ten or twelve times before he finally left it in pieces, made Rhys wait, just until he felt like he had calmed down enough for it to be safe, until he couldn’t hear her gloating inside his mind any longer, until the darkness had receded. 

_ Fine,  _ he responded, finally, sure that Rhys had long since stopped expecting him to answer.  _ Fine. Come here. _

There was a breath of darkness, the chill of a cold wind and a hint of starlight, and Rhys stood in front of him, looking around the room with his eyebrows raised. Tamlin knew he must be a mess, even if he couldn’t see himself; his hair tousled, shirtless and covered in sweat, with unhealed wounds from the glass on his hands. He was surrounded by about a hundred thousand bits of broken wood and glass. He _l_ _ ooked  _ like someone who had just lost his temper on an empty room. The only things untouched were the books, still carefully lined up along the bookshelves, undamaged.

Rhys looked perfect, like he always did. Not a hair out of place, wearing the same outfit from the throne room. Tamlin stared dully at him, wondering why he could never make himself do that any longer - make himself look perfect all the time. It just didn’t seem important, clothes, and hair, and not letting anything that happened to him show. 

Rhys took a step forward, looking at his face, and then stopped. “Tamlin. What happened back there-”

Tamlin shook his head. “Don’t.”

“I’m-”

“I  _ know.  _ You’re sorry.”

“I-I’m-" Rhys’s voice shook and Tamlin looked up, realizing those violet eyes had tears in them.

"... Rhys?"  Had he ever seen Rhys cry before?

“I’m  _ sorry _ ,” Rhys finished raggedly. 

“Rhys, I-” He let all the breath out. No words came. He just held his hands out helplessly and shrugged. Instead, he let the mating bond speak for him - let Rhys see the ugliness inside his head, the twisting  _ want  _ married to his contempt for himself at feeling it and his sense of responsibility for not stopping it.

Rhys’s mouth pressed into a thin line. "Tamlin, this  _ isn't your fault _ . This was  _ my  _ colossal mistake, not yours."

"But I didn't stop you-"

"You are not to blame. I crossed the line. It’s not your responsibility to  _ stop me,  _ it’s mine not to do it in the first place. Do you understand?" 

“I should have said something,” Tamlin said flatly.

“You did. You tried.” Rhys stepped forward again, each step carefully placed, taking his time. Giving Tamlin a chance to stop him, letting him control how close he got. Tamlin only looked away without moving. He took one of Tamlin’s hands in his, turning it over to look at his palm. “Shit, Tamlin. Did you cut yourself? You’re bleeding.” He looked back up to meet Tamlin's eyes.

It was the thing Tamlin hated most in the world. Pity.  _ Sympathy  _ for the  _ poor High Lord who had been through so much.  _ He’d been surrounded by it most of his life - people who pitied him for his brothers, for Amarantha, for the deaths, for being rude and boorish at court events, for not knowing what he was doing, for… 

Some hint of the anger came back and he grabbed desperately onto it.

“Yes, well. It’s a particular skill of mine, bleeding.” Tamlin pulled his hand back, his voice hard and snide. “I’m really  _ very good _ at it. You spend enough time with your tongue on the evidence of just how good I am, don’t you?”

Rhys looked as though he’d been struck, his jaw setting into a hard line. “Don’t do that, Tamlin.”

“Do what? It’s what  _ you _ said to  _ me _ , that you’re  _ really very good.  _ The first time she put us together. Remember?”

“I remember. That was a different circumstance.”   


“Was it?” Tamlin heard the exhaustion in his voice and turned away, looking out the window. “From  _ my _ perspective, it was you fucking me in front of someone, and that - or you wanting to, anyway - seems to be a theme that’s still ongoing with us.” The day outside was sunny and bright, and seemed incongruous, something false. As though he were in a dream now, and would wake up to pouring rain.

“If I could have told her no, I would have. I didn’t want to have you in her bed anymore than you wanted to be there. That’s not what it ever was, and you know it.”

“You sure?” Tamlin turned to look at him again, feeling the flare of light in his own eyes as he glared. The anger felt so comfortable, and reassuring. The anger was better than the fear. “You’re  _ very sure _ about that, Rhys? That you would have stopped yourself?"

“That’s not-”

“You ordered me to hold still,” Tamlin said in a low voice. “You  _ ordered me. _ You know who else ordered me to hold still so someone else could watch? Maybe we can just keep it consistent and ask your brother to be the one watching next time. Cauldron knows she had him in there enough to see us together. That’s why they hate me, isn’t it? Because they  _ know what I did. _ ”

Rhys’s eyes flared, the violet gone nearly black. “You need to stop right now,” He said, and his own voice was a sea of calm before the tsunami. “No one hates you and you need to stop trying to bait me. Don't you dare suggest that my family would judge you for what happened."

"Isn't that what  _ you're  _ afraid of?"

Rhys swallowed hard, but he did not look away. "I know better now that I’m home. You’re trying to make me angry so that you have an excuse to get mad, too. You’re trying to start a fight-

“ _ Start  _ one? Have you even told them half of what happened to us? Do they even know…  _ any of it? _ ”

“... They can probably guess. Stop changing the subject.”

“Fine. I’ll go back to you  _ touching me  _ in front of your courtier. How close were you to ordering me to kneel so she could watch you command me to use my mouth on you right there? One more minute? Five?”

Rhys’s face went white, his eyes wide. Tamlin could feel the spike of shock and anger and  _ acknowledgement  _ that thrummed between them. “Cauldron, Tamlin, I wouldn’t have-”

“But you  _ wanted _ to. Even if you wouldn’t have, you  _ wanted to.  _ Don't try lying. I can tell you did."

Rhys put one hand up over his face, letting out a sigh. “This mating bond is inconvenient sometimes.”

“Don’t I fucking know it.”

“Tamlin, I wouldn’t have-... I’m not  _ her. _ ”

“No,” Tamlin said, and now that he had Rhys truly upset, he felt like an absolute prick. He’d made a mistake. He should have taken the comfort Rhys had clearly come to give, not said things neither of them could take back. He'd hit too hard, too deep. He never knew how to stop hurting the people around him. “Fuck. Rhys, I… I’m-... sorry. I love you. You’re better than her. I’m never going to tell you you’re not. But I’m not an object to show off. I’m not a  _ distraction  _ when you’re unhappy about something, or a thing you can use in your throne room _. _ Not anymore. If you want to bed me - or act like you’re going to - in front of someone, you had better have the good grace to  _ ask first the next time.  _ I might say yes.”

“I did not come here to have this conversation, Tamlin.”

“I didn’t ask you to come here, did I? I was doing just fine on my own.” 

Rhys looked around at the wreckage of the study, letting the uncomfortable silence draw out exactly long enough to ensure his point was made. “Clearly,” He said dryly. “You know, you make it _ deeply  _ difficult to apologize to you. You’re worse than Cas.”

Tamlin snorted, and went to close the drapes, take them back to darkness. Except that he’d torn at them with his claws and knocked them off balance, and the whole damn thing came crashing to the ground, the sun shining stubbornly in. Tamlin heard himself start laughing, bitter and cynical, laughter that started out quiet and became uncontrolled and loud and half-mad. Finally, still laughing, he sat back down on the ground. “Typical. Bloody fucking typical. Is there anything I  _ don’t  _ break? Well  _ done,  _ Spring Lord,” He muttered to himself, putting his head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees, still laughing, although any hint of humor had long since gone out of it. “Well  _ done.  _ Ruin everything good while you’re at it. It’s what you’re good at. Ruin everything. _ ” _

"Oh, for Cauldron's sake, stop it. You and your damn pity parties. For someone who hates having other people feel sorry for you, you sure spend a lot of time feeling sorry for _yourself_." Rhys sighed, his boots crunching on glass as he walked over, crouching down in front of Tamlin. He took his hand and began to slowly pick the bits of glass out of his palms. “You’ll get your head all bloody,” He said, gently. 

“I’ll bathe. Why did you do that, Rhys?” He looked up, meeting Rhys’s gaze. “In front of her.”

It was Rhys whose eyes dropped this time, and he sat, glancing behind him to sweep away any bits of debris, taking the glass out of the other palm now. “I was upset about what Azriel did and worried about the both of them. I let Lyria get a rise out of me and felt like I needed to prove a point. I-I made a mistake.”

_ Yes,  _ Tamlin said through the mating bond.  _ You did.  _ The voice in Rhys’s head, though, was less bitter and angry than his spoken words. Between them, along the mating bond, Tamlin let his love shine through his exhaustion and fear.

Rhys looked up and met his gaze, searching in his eyes. Whatever he saw there must have been what he was hoping for; Rhys smiled at him, faintly. After a second, Tamlin smiled back.

“I won’t do that again. That wasn’t what you were there for. You’re  _ not _ a distraction. You know what you are to me, Tam, you  _ know. _ I was just-... not prepared for Azriel to throw himself on a sword today, and I’m worried for Cas, and she… she just looked like someone else for a moment. I lost control of myself. Repeated old patterns. I won’t do it again.”

Understanding finally dawned on Tamlin, the pieces clicking into place. It made sense, when he really thought it through. Lyria had red hair in a pile of elaborate braids carefully around her head, had been wearing a high-necked dress with nearly nothing to the back, a mockery of modesty. Her face was pretty but not particularly beautiful, and… “Because she looked like  _ her. _ ”

“Yes. I wanted to be in control. I wanted to  _ show her _ that I was in control of my own court. Even though it wasn’t  _ her _ , it felt like… it felt like it was, for a moment there. I playact at being undamaged by what happened to me, but we both know that’s an act for Mor and my brothers.” Rhys’s own shame melted into his through the bond between them. Tamlin could hardly tell which shame belonged to who, both of them were so twisted in the same way. “I wanted to show her that you didn’t belong to her, but I treated you like…”

“Like I belong to  _ you now  _ instead.”

Rhys nodded, swallowing hard. “I fucked up, Spring. Maybe you were right, when you came back to me. Maybe we really _ are _ both broken.”

There was a silence. Tamlin took a deep breath in, tried to steady his voice. “You can’t touch me like that, in front of people, Rhys. Do you understand?”

“I know. It was wrong, it hurt you-”

“No. Stop. I’m not good at this.” He closed his eyes for just a second, trying to find the right words for what he wanted to say. 

_ You can’t do it.. because I want you to do it again. I wanted it so badly when you did.  _

There was another silence. Finally, Rhys said, his deep voice barely a breath of sound, “I wanted it, too. I know. I won’t do it again.”  

Tamlin nodded, more in thought than any actual affirmation, then leaned forward, kissing Rhys once, just slightly. Rhys pushed the kiss deeper, sliding his hand up into his hair, the hair he still kept short, for reasons he refused to explain. He knew Rhys probably understood, anyway. 

“We can’t be that to each other,” Tamlin said, without pulling all the way back, letting their mouths brush. “We  _ can’t.  _ You can’t be that to me, Rhys. You can’t be my mate and be  _ that to me. _ ”

“I know. I won’t do it again.”

_ I love you, Nightmare. I loved you before you ever told me. _

“I can’t be that.”

_ I love you, Spring. I should have noticed a long time ago. _

“You  _ aren’t _ that.” Rhys put a hand up to his face, drew a thumb across his left cheekbone, where a small line of dotted scars trailed. “You aren’t. I promise. You’re my mate. You don’t belong to me. If anything, Tam,  _ I  _ belong to  _ you. _ ”

Tamlin let his eyes close, slowly, and reached out, forgetting that he was probably still bloody in the palms, grabbing Rhys by the front of his shirt and pulling him close. Rhys laughed as it pulled him off balance and he had to catch himself. 

For a while, Tamlin simply let himself get lost in the kiss. There was a difference, he thought, to the way Rhys kissed as opposed to all the  _ females  _ he had known throughout his life - or even the few males in the war camps, a couple of times he’d thought he could get away with it without his father finding out. 

There had been a hesitancy, with the others, a knowledge that they were unequal in social standing or that there was a fear about being caught. There had been insecurity, inexperience, or uncertainty. With Rhys, there was none of that; Rhys knew  _ exactly  _ what he was doing, the two of them were equals, and Rhys did not give a damn what  _ anyone  _ thought about it. 

The only person other than Rhys who had ever kissed him like  _ this _ , the only other male who hadn’t been in some way subordinate to him, had been-

But he wasn’t going to think about that.

“Are we all right?” Rhys asked, softly, when they broke apart. 

“I don’t know,” Tamlin replied, shaking his head slowly. “But I think we’re better than we were an hour ago, and that’s all I have right now. Stay for dinner? I have to talk bandits with Lucien, but I want you with me tonight.”

Rhys quirked a smile. “I have to go back to Hewn City. I think I can catch Cas and Az before they put them on the ship and I’d like a better goodbye than what we got earlier. And also to take your advice. I’ll come back after that. I’ll bring Amren and Mor, Mor will spend all night moping if I don’t.”

“My advice?”

Rhys nodded, slowly. “To give them a way back here if they get in too much danger there. I think I know what I can do.”

“I’ll stay with you after that.”

“I never want you anywhere else other than with me, Spring.” Rhys slid his arm around behind Tamlin’s shoulders and leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

He could almost hear the smugness that would be in Lucien’s voice tonight at dinner when he learned  _ talking about the problem _ had made it better. Which would be swiftly replaced with immense discomfort when he learned the kissing had helped, too.

There was one more beat of silence, before Rhys looked around the wreckage of the room. “... is that your father’s  _ desk? _ ”

Tamlin caught himself smiling. “Well… it was. Now I guess it’s firewood. I hope he’s spinning down there.”

“Down there?”

“Rhys, we both know he’s burning in hell.”


	6. Last Moments in the Night Lands

The thing about Azriel that really infuriated Cas, even after centuries of friendship, was how he was absolutely unruffled by silence. You couldn’t outlast him, couldn’t wait until the moment was so tense he felt like he  _ had to  _ speak.

No, Azriel would simply outlast  _ you,  _ and he never even knew he was doing it. Silence was more comfortable for him than speech - he was quiet everywhere he went, even quiet in bed... when he wasn’t giving Cas the absolute best orders he’d ever taken in his life. Cas watched for minute changes of expression, listened for the slightest exhales, whispered commands, the occasional loss of control that would lead to a moan. The only version of Az he’d ever seen that you could call talkative or loud was when he was drunk to the point of forgetfulness, or the version of him under Amarantha’s control, when he’d been so much a creature of his own  _ want  _ that most of him had been buried under her spell.

Cas was head over heels in love with him, even if he’d only ever said it out loud the once, but the quiet drove him crazy in moments like this.

They’d been escorted out of the throne room, guards flanking the two of them, waited in some small anteroom for no particular reason Cas could fathom. Eventually, those guards had been changed out for a _different_ set of guards, who finally led them down a tunnel that Cas knew very well.

At the other end of it, they would be at the docks on the eastern edge of the Night Lands. Old High Lord magic twisted the distance under their feet so that they might have walked less than two miles and gone more than three hundred.

The whole time, Azriel was totally silent. His empty expression was relaxed, peaceful, as though they’d been invited out for a simple stroll. Cas didn’t exactly have a lot to say, either, but his mind was racing, his hands constantly itching to pull out a blade and fight his way out. It took effort to simply put one foot in front of the other, like a convict, a criminal.

That’s what he  _ was, _ now, though. A convicted criminal. The one who had called Amarantha into Velaris and helped her put his people to the slaughter.

When he thought of that, the itch in his hands subsided. He let his shoulders slump, and focused his eyes down at the ground, putting one foot in front of the other. 

When they came back out into the sunshine, the door led to a small courtyard, with a couple of benches and a high wall surrounding it. He couldn’t  _ see  _ the docks from here, but he could smell the ocean. Underneath the noise of a bustling port city, the calls of distant songbirds, he could hear the ocean too, a constant, even rush back and forth.

Devlon stood waiting for them, in his full battle armor with his wings curled against his back, with the same smug smirk he’d had on his face when the verdict was handed down.  _Oh for the Cauldron's sake, did we wait in that room for so long because you wanted to look intimidating first?_

Cassian couldn’t quite keep his lips from curling into a snarl. “You. Shouldn’t you be eating shit somewhere else?”

“That’s not a nice way to greet your commander, Cassian,” Devlon said, crooking one eyebrow

“You’re not my commander,” Cassian snapped.

“And you’re not my general any longer. As the current and future head of the Illyrian legions, it’s my solemn  _ duty _ to bid farewell to Illyrian  _ criminals  _ who leave the Night Lands after conviction.”

Cas snorted. “Yeah, you’re real fucking solemn about it.”

“I could make a sad face, if you think it would help.” Devlon raised one eyebrow, but the smile on his face only deepened. “We’d both know I was lying about it, but I’d be willing to help you out.”

“You helped _ enough  _ back there,” Azriel said quietly. While his expression was empty and expressionless, his Siphons flickered to life, briefly, and went dark again. The guards, hands on their swords, stepped closer.

“Ah,” Devlon said quietly, but he took one step back. “Yes. We’ll start with those, then.” He gestured with one hand, and the guards stepped up. “Remove the armor, Illyrians. You are not fit to wear it.”

Azriel began to remove his gauntlets without a word, holding Devlon’s eyes with a long, silent stare. Cas hesitated, frowning down at his wrists, looking them over “We can’t take our armor? But… without the Siphons-”

“You’ll have the gauntlets with your Siphons returned when you arrive in Lawless,” Devlon drawled. “Now it may not be all  _ seven  _ you’re used to utilizing, but you’ll have to make do.”

Cas slowly removed his gauntlets, handing them to the guards, who stood expectantly.    


“Well?” Devlon crossed his arms in front of himself. “Your armor, too.”

“I don’t see why you had the be the one here to do this,” Cas muttered. Az never said a word, divesting himself of his armor as though it were just another bit of clothing and not their second skin. Azriel took out all of his knives, one by one, piling them up on the ground in front of himself until the guards were no longer watching with curiosity but with nervous uncertainty and finally obvious fear.

Finally, when the two of them were dressed in only their thin under-armor shirt and pants, Devlon jerked his head at the two guards, who picked up the discarded armor and weapons uneasily, muttering to each other about the sheer  _ weight  _ of blades Azriel had had hidden on himself.

“You are no longer part of the Illyrian legions,” Devlon said with a supreme satisfaction in his voice. “Even if you survive your five years in Lawless, I’ll ensure you  _ never _ serve again. Kneeling at the Mad Queen’s throne like a fucking  _ dog. _ ..” Devlon spat in the dirt at Cassian’s feet. “A true Illyrian would have killed himself rather than live like that.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Cas said tightly.

“He couldn’t have fought her,” Azriel spoke up, eyes blazing. “What would you have had him do, Devlon? He couldn’t even free his hands-”

“Is that what he told you? A true Illyrian would have found a way to die,” Devlon continued. “You had plenty of time down in her prisons, Cassian. And you did nothing but wait for her to call you up again.”

“Go to hell," Cas hissed. "I had to do a lot more than wait."

"Like what?"

Azriel was looking at him, and Cas could read the curiosity and concern on his face. He turned away and stared fixedly at the wall instead. "None of your fucking business, Devlon."

"Just what I thought. You should have died with honor instead."

"You would have been happy to see me dead. It would have been exactly what you wanted.”

“I might still get my wish. You would rather kneel than die fighting, Cassian, which makes you a humiliation to your race. I always said the High Lord was too blind to see what a mistake it was to let a bastard bit of nothing rise so high.”

Cas’s eyes flared. “Call me a bastard again and I’ll-”

“What?” Devlon asked with mock-innocence. “What  _ exactly _ will you do? You could try to kill me here, no doubt. Your High Lord would protect you. But what would protecting you do to him, when this court barely recognizes his authority any longer?” 

Cas growled low in his throat, moving to step forward, stopped by Azriel’s hand on his arm. 

“Calm,” Azriel murmured. “He’s trying to get you to do something Rhys would have to punish you more for.”

Cas took a deep breath in through his mouth, slowly let it out through his nose. “At least say you’ll train the girls, Devlon.”

“Why? So you can feel better about yourself? No, they’ll go right back to the way things used to be. The way they  _ should be. _ Time for your marks, bastard scum. Put out your arms.”

“I am going to live through this,” Cas said in a soft, deadly voice, holding up the inside of his left wrist as the last two guards stepped forward. He held Devlon’s gaze as they began to paint, using a soft-bristled brush that swept softly across his skin. “And when I get back from Lawless, I will tear your throat out with my teeth and I will take back command of my army.”

Azriel, standing next to him, lifted his scarred wrist up to be painted as well, his teeth gritted as one guard held his elbow and another kept his forearm still. He had never liked being touched without his consent, and Cas could see how tightly wound he was, every muscle straining to keep steady and emotionless. 

“Hmph. No, you definitely won’t.”

“What makes you so sure I won’t survive?”

“If we’re sharing honesty with each other, I’ll admit I expect you’ll survive. But you still won’t have command.”

“Why not?”

Devlon snorted, and then slowly inclined his head in something like a bow. “May you die a good death in battle and walk the White Bridge, although it’s far less honor than you deserve.”

Devlon and the guards left them, two Illyrians with no armor, no Siphons, and no place in their own people any longer, marked on their wrists as criminals.

_ I was the head of Rhys’s armies two years ago,  _ Cassian thought with a kind of numb surprise. 

The mark they had painted on was a soft, slightly dusty blue tattoo that already seemed faded, an elegant letter L and number 5 entwined together. Unable to leave Lawless for five years, unable to winnow or otherwise escape. They’d had to lay Azriel’s over some of his scarring, so his had bumps and wrinkles to it where Cas’s was flat.

They were left there in the small walled-in courtyard with a kind of metal mesh roof that met in a point far above their heads that let in the warmth and a speckled sunlight and was tall enough to let a few smallish trees grow stunted in here, but kept the two of them from flying away. Cas frowned, stalking over to a bench and sitting down, wondering how long they’d have to wait.

Azriel found a shadowed spot against the wall and leaned back against it, wings curled slightly around himself to block a bit more of the sun’s heat, looking with blank emptiness into nothing at all. 

At first Cas was silent because he was angry, at Devlon and himself and Rhys and Az and Amarantha and the whole fucking world, then because he was just… waiting for Azriel to say something. He wanted the other Illyrian to break first, to explain himself, to at least  _ talk  _ about the absolute idiocy Cas had just witnessed back there.

But that was the thing about Azriel. If you were going to wait for him to break the silence, you’d wait a week, or a month, or a year. Except for the once - except when Cas had avoided him for six months after Amarantha’s death and Azriel had finally had enough of it.

But today… Azriel was silent, his absurdly beautiful face giving nothing away, while Cas’s mind raged out of control and he was sure his every change of expression proved it. Cas let his eyes linger, just for a moment, on Azriel’s left wing just slightly dragging the ground, the only sign at all that Az was genuinely distracted by his own thoughts and not paying attention. Felt his usual stab of guilt at being the reason Azriel had been left so vulnerable at all.

_ Ha. I  _ am  _ a disgrace to Illyrians - I would have happily knelt for her forever to keep him safe, if she had only known to ask. _

Finally, Cas straightened his back and said, “Hey.”

Az kept staring off into space. 

“Az. I’m talking to you.” Cas sighed and rolled his eyes. “Look at me, dumbass.”

Azriel turned his head, slowly, to meet his eyes. One eyebrow slowly lifted in curiosity.

“Have you lost your  _ fucking mind _ ? Huh? What the fuck was  _ wrong _ with you back there?”

“Nothing,” Azriel said in that same infuriating calm. “You won’t last there by yourself. I decided to go with you. I am always with you.” It was infuriating, the way that he could just… act like terrifying the court with his shadows and his anger and then declaring he would send himself into exile was a perfectly rational way to spend a day, and he didn’t know why Cas had to be so huffy about it.

“Azriel…” Cas let out a harsh breath, putting his hands up over his face, trying to keep himself from yelling. He didn’t know if there were more guards nearby, and he’d hate to find out by having them listen in on a fight. “Everything…  _ everything _ I did, and said, for the past three weeks has been to make sure you _ didn’t _ end up dead right alongside me. Then we get down there today and you throw yourself on a fucking sword first chance you get!”

“I do not intend to die,” Azriel pointed out. “I do not intend for you to die, either.  _ My _ entire goal for today has been to ensure your safety. I can do that most successfully by staying at your side.”

“I’ll make sure to tell the land of murderous thieving raping _ assholes _ we’re about to be thrown into about your noble  _ intentions. _ ” 

“Cas, we stand a better chance together than alone,” Azriel said, with that same simple, clear rationality. Cas wished he had something to throw at him. “We always have. You know that.”

“It wasn’t  _ your crime.” _

"It sure as _fuck_ wasn’t yours, either,” Azriel said, and his voice shook, just a little bit, the first sign of real feeling in him since Devlon left. “We were out of our minds. How _dare_ they act like you’d ever have opened Velaris on your own? They’re all backstabbing shits and if it weren’t for Rhys, the Night Court would be the weakest in Prythian."

“I know, Az. I feel the same way.” Cas sighed, closing his eyes.

When he opened them again, Az was moving slowly towards him. Some things Azriel refused to tell him, but Cas had seen him in the air, since Amarantha’s death, and knew at least part of what those healers must have said, when it was finally over - that he had very nearly lost the wing entirely. That Rhys had, in his typical perfectly dramatic sense of timing, managed to free himself in the last few seconds before it would have been too late. 

He would wake up, sometimes with Azriel asleep beside him, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. He’d watch him, just reminding himself that Az was all right, they were here, they were together. Sometimes he would let himself touch the barest edge of that damaged wing.

_ That’s my fault. Just like all those dead Velarans are my fault. Just like all those dead Darkbringers are my fault. Just like what happened to us up on that ledge was my fault.  _

But that brought back Az, in a dark alley in the middle of winter, saying softly,  _ You didn’t hurt me, Cas. I wanted you. _

“Cas, it was  _ her crime.  _ They’re turning on you, and on Rhys, because they can’t do anything to her any longer. Devlon’s doing this because he wants to command the Illyrian legions and turn them away from Rhys, from the rest of us. And you  _ don’t stand a chance in Lawless. _ ”

“I’m not worried about what chance I stand,” Cas muttered. “I’ve fought bigger fights than against a few starving criminals.”

“Well, I _am_ worried. You don’t get to commit suicide by exile, you ass.” When Cas blinked up at him in surprise, Azriel did not move. “It won’t help your guilt, only hurt the rest of us when we lose you.”

“I actually think it  _ would _ help my guilt. Dead people don’t usually feel all that guilty, in my experience.” Cas looked around the courtyard, trying to find something to give his attention to. Just a tree, a few benches, a small water fountain. He closed his eyes. Who knew how long they’d be in here. He’d go mad from boredom.

He wondered if he could ask for books, for the trip. He had no idea how long it would take to get there and no idea what traveling on a ship would even be like. It had taken three absolutely terrifying months for his ability to read and write to return after his time Under the Mountain, and Cas never wanted to take it for granted ever again. 

Finally, he looked up, glowering when he found Az was still watching him with that same damn nothing expression. He was actually  _ smiling,  _ very slightly. “ _ What. _ ”

“I just thought of something.”

Cas raised his eyebrows curiously, waiting.

A beat of silence. Then another.

Cas finally sighed. “Are you really going to make me ask what you thought of before you’ll just say it? You know I hate when you do that.”

“I  _ do  _ know you hate it,” Az said with a faint, barely-there grin. “That’s why I do it. You know, there’s… something to be said for Lawless.” His tone was of someone who was unwinding a hypothetical for consideration. “No laws means no expectations, no traditions to violate. No one cares about "the way things have always been done". No one gives a shit about lineage or purity. Criminals means fae who already don’t give a damn about the rules where they came from. Which means we’re free of those expectations, too.”

“So?”

“Cas.  _ Think  _ about it.”

“Think about what?”

“By the Cauldron, you’re dense.”

“I would be less dense if you’d just  _ say it! _ ”

Azriel let a shadow twine around his hand and watched the wisps of darkness like smoke as they went around his fingers. “Think about what that means _ for you and I. _ ”

 A shadow found its way to Cas, too, and he leaned down, holding out one hand for it to curl up around him, closing his eyes slightly. He never quite got used to the way Az’s shadows felt so cold but so insubstantial - like letting an ice cube made of fog trail your skin. Couldn’t quite get used to the way they had attached themselves to him, now, too - they whispered to him in a breath of sound. He didn’t know if they were just part of Az or separate from him, but they came to  _ him _ . It felt like a privilege, like Azriel had let him into his life in a way he never had before.

“What it means?” Cas looked up at him again, squinting slightly in thought. 

“If we can get someplace where no one knows us, no one recognizes us…” Azriel smiled, his small quiet smile. “There’s no one to care what we are to each other, is there?” Cas went still, hoping no guards were anywhere near them on the other side of the wall.

Azriel apparently read his expression and shook his head, a little sadly. “Already checked,” He said, softly “We’re alone, Cas. And in Lawless, no one will give a damn what we do. You won’t have to… listen, like that, or worry someone will hear us. We can be together in the daylight.”

Cas leaned over, putting his chin in his hands, thinking. He watched the shadow slowly slide under his shirtsleeve, felt its faint chill along the skin on the inside of his arm, closed his eyes slightly and shivered pleasantly as it made its way up his shirt collar and brushed against his neck. “Az, does it  _ bother _ you to hide it?”

“Doesn’t it bother  _ you? _ ”

“No,” He said, his voice low. “Not really. I spent so long hiding it even from  _ you…  _ No. It doesn’t bother me. It’s what I always thought I’d have to do if I ever... pursued males, too. If you’re looking  _ forward  _ to being exiled to our deaths just because it means we can… I don’t know, hold hands in public or something...”

“I would have worded it differently than that,” Az said with a small smile, but Cas knew him well enough to see the hint of hurt in his eyes. “Lawless is going to be tough, but it’s only five years. Five years of not having to hide sounds good to me. It might be all the not-having-to-hide that I get.”

“Only five years,” Cas said with a hollow laugh. “Right. And Rhys here by himself in the meantime without us.”

“He’ll have Mor and Amren.” Amren shook his head. “And… Tamlin, I guess.”

“Right.” Cas rolled his eyes. “Tamlin.”

“It’s not up to us,” Azriel said with a shrug. “It’s not even up to  _ them.  _ The Cauldron chose them to be mates. I believe the Cauldron makes its choices for a reason.”

“Azriel, I’ve known you for five centuries, you’ve never been the superstitious type.”

Azriel shrugged. “How do you explain the mating bond? It doesn’t make any sense, otherwise. They’ve  _ hated each other  _ for so long and a couple of years with Amarantha undoes all that and now they’re mates?”

“Hate is sometimes just a thin veil over a deeper emotion.”

“Cauldron, Cas,” Azriel said with awe in his voice, “are you spouting  _ poetry  _ at me?”

Cas snorted. “Rhys could have rejected it. Or… well, no he couldn’t. Rhys couldn’t reject any romance that has ‘bad fucking idea’ written all over it, he’s functionally incapable.”

Azriel didn’t say anything this time, but he still had that faint smile on his face.

“How long do you think it’ll take for me to be recognized?” Cas tried to keep his voice even, empty, curious. “I’ve sentenced a lot of fae to Lawless.”

“Hopefully months,” Azriel said softly. “You’ve never sentenced an Illyrian there, and most of the rest of the people never see us at all. We can just be who we are, for a while, first.”

“Just because they’re criminals doesn’t mean they won’t… have the same problems with us that the rest of the Illyrians would,” Cas said pointedly. “It’s not like you to be  _ naive _ , Az.”

“I should hope they’ll have bigger problems than whether or not a couple of Illyrians are…” 

“Fucking?” Cas offered, grinning. 

“... I was going to say something polite like  _ courting  _ or  _ seeing each other _ , but sure, Cassian, go straight to crass.” 

“Come on, Az, I’ve said worse than that and you never minded before. Don’t go hunting for class now, you won’t find it in me.”

“That was before, and you weren't talking about  _ us. _ ” Azriel glanced towards the locked door that led to the tunnels they’d come from, then back at him. “Now that we’re… whatever we are to each other-”

“What  _ are  _ we?” Cas asked. “Exactly?”

Azriel kept his gaze fixed on the door back into the tunnels. After a long silence, he just shook his head. “Friends. Beyond that, I don't know.”

“Az, do you…?”

_ Do you love me as much as I love you? _

Azriel turned to look at him, with his carefully empty face. “What?” 

Cas looked away. “Never mind. This has been the longest fucking day.” It felt like days had passed since he’d gone out to find Azriel sharpening all his daggers. Azriel had been preparing to run, hadn’t he? To take Cas and run from the death sentence, cut down anyone who stood in their way. He looked back at Azriel, his almost unsettlingly beautiful face that was so often empty of expression to anyone who didn’t know him.

Azriel had been ready to take down a whole room of his own court, had had the shadows pull Cas down to his knees so he wouldn’t be in the way if he had to cut off a few heads to do it. Azriel had gone into that room prepared to leave it with Cas in hand and a trail of dead bodies behind him, dumping his entire carefully constructed life to run away with him.

_ If that wasn’t love, what was? _

“Where did you plan to go?” Cas asked, and Azriel turned to look at him, eyebrows raising in question. “If they sentenced me to die. Where were you going to go?”

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” Az said quietly. “I knew how I’d get you up into the air, and Tamlin agreed he’d get me a fast current to get us moving as far as we could without having to… to rely too much on the strength of my wings, and after that, I guess I just planned to fly until we couldn’t any longer.”

"You talked to Tamlin?"

"A little."

"Tamlin wanted to help  _ me?  _ Actively? But I'm-"

"Awful to him? Rude as shit? Well… it turns out he loves our brother more than he is annoyed by you."

Cas sat back, letting out a breath. “I… should probably be nicer to Tamlin. Honestly, I don't mind him, it's just-”

_ It's just that every time I look at him, I remember what he looked like in bed with my brother. _

“You have five years to plan your apologies.” 

Azriel had been planning an escape from a death sentence. That Devlon had said exile instead was why Azriel had been so thrown off, had lost his temper right there in front of the whole court. He’d been preparing to grab Cas and run for a door. It was harder for him to justify killing people when the sentence was exile.

The shadow found its way back out from under his sleeve, ran up his arm to ruffle his hair, and returned to Azriel. Cas smiled, watching it slide along the ground, leaving a trail of slightly flattened grass.

“If we  _ both  _ die in Lawless, Rhys is going to be  _ so pissed off,  _ you know. I’ll bet he didn’t expect you to want to go with me rather than stay here.” 

“I’d rather be with you than anyone else,” Azriel said mildly. “That’s always been true, and Rhys knows it as well as anyone does. I’d have stood knee deep in their bodies to get you out of there beside me.”

Cas laughed. “And here we all thought  _ Rhys  _ was the hopeless romantic, with his heartfelt declarations and the way he  _ looks  _ at Tamlin.” 

“My heartfelt declarations may not sound like his,” Azriel said softly, “But they are exactly as true. And I should hope my  _ looks  _ are, too.” Azriel’s voice was serious, but humor glittered in his eyes. Cas, not for the first time, was struck by how strangely euphoric it felt to be one of the only people alive who could read Azriel’s minute, small changes of expression, be trusted with understanding him.

“I’d have slaughtered them all for you, too,” Cas said, softly. “You know that, right? There’s no one I wouldn’t kill for you. I am with you, Az.”

“Always,” Azriel said almost automatically.

“If we survive this-”

“Which we will,” Az said simply. “If we’re together.”

“Right. But… when we get back… Az, I won’t have command any longer, that’s part of the sentence. You heard Devlon. He’d dead set on making sure I never command the Illyrians, at least, again. And you can’t command Rhys’s armies if you’re not allowed to be in charge of, well, about half of them.” He swallowed against the lump in his throat. Commanding Rhys’s armies had been his whole life for so long - he had no idea what he’d do, if he wasn’t a general any longer. Without command, what had his whole life been leading up to, anyway? It felt like failure, like letting all the High Fae and Illyrians, who had loathed him for being a bastard who had fought his way up rather than being born to it, win in their endless crusade to force him back down  _ into his place _ .

“You don’t know that,” Azriel said, shaking his head. “Rhys told the court they couldn’t decide it until we return. Devlon’s not omniscient.”

Cassian slowly nodded. “Who knows. Maybe in five years I won’t  _ want  _ command any longer.” He saw Azriel look over at him, puzzled. “I mean… if _ not  _ having command means I wouldn’t have to hide you when we’re in public any longer. Maybe that’s… better.”

The thing was, he wasn’t sure if he believed that.

“Someone’s coming,” Azriel said suddenly, and placed himself against the wall again, crossing his arms. Cas didn’t move from his seat on the bench, just watching Azriel, thinking about how different his life was right now than it had been a year ago - or three years ago - or seventy.

It honestly seemed like a victory for Amarantha, he thought bitterly, that he should be freed from her chains and silver and  _ control,  _ to have he and Azriel stop hiding from one another if not from the rest of the world, only to end up sent into exile thanks to something  _ she had done to him in the first place.  _ But he could have fought harder, he thought, with that same stab of guilt. He could have fought harder, or let himself be kept like an animal, in order to keep Velaris safe. He should have known she would track him back here. He should have known better than to try and escape her.

_ Don't go to a dark place, Cassian. Look at what you have right now. _

Both of them were tense, ready for the guard to come escort them down to the ships. Instead, it was Rhys who stepped through the door. He gave the two of them a shame-faced smile, all his hardness and cruelty gone from his face now that he wasn’t performing for the Court of Nightmares. “Hey.”

“Where you been, Rhys?” Cas asked, a question in the old words, the way they’d greeted each other for centuries.

“Busy,” Rhys answered, reassurance in his voice. He was still wearing his court clothes, although he’d unbuttoned and loosened the high neck, the top of one of his chest tattoos just barely showing. “I, um.” He frowned, some distant worry in his eyes, then just shrugged. “I had something to take care of first.”

“What,” Cas teased, “Did Tamlin require attention before you could see us?”

Rhys opened his mouth to answer, then slowly closed it again.

Cas swallowed hard against a sudden lump in his throat. “ _ Did  _ he?”

“Yes.” Rhys’s voice was sharp, but it wasn’t directed at Cas so much as at himself. “I did something stupid and I had to fix it before I could come see you. I’m sorry. I, uh. I’m saying that a lot today.”

“What did you do?”

Rhys snorted. “Fucked up. Let’s… just leave it at ‘fucked up’.”

So… did you… fix it?”

“I don’t know. I think so.”

“Well… good. I think.” Cas cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. “Is Tamlin… fine?”

“Yes. As much as he ever is. Can we stop talking about it? You look like you’re about to awkward yourself right into the floor.”

“Did you decide your farewell earlier wasn’t quite right?” Azriel asked, mildly, crossing his arms in front of himself. “What did you say? ‘Be gone’?”

Rhys looked at him with absolute gratitude for the change in subject. “I  _ also  _ asked you to come back to me. I’m still angry with you. Sort of.” He closed his eyes and Cas felt him build the barrier around them, ensuring that even if anyone came right up against the wall, they wouldn’t be overheard. Cas couldn’t build barriers like that, that wasn’t what his power was for - for Rhys, things like this were nearly effortless.

He wondered if Rhys used that kind of soundproofing with Tamlin and felt uneasy. He’d never get used to the idea that someone Rhys had spent actual  _ hundreds of years  _ hating and plotting against was now standing behind his throne, giving him advice, sometimes sitting at the table with the rest of them at dinner like he  _ belonged there,  _ following - sometimes leading - Rhys to bed. 

He was glad he and Azriel had the apartment to stay in. He couldn't have stayed in Rhys's townhome any longer, knowing Tamlin and Rhys were in Rhys’s bedroom together. It reminded Cas uneasily of too many nights curled up on Amarantha's floor, trying not to see or to hear what she clearly enjoyed knowing he could not escape.

Although Az was right - the Cauldron had made its choice, not Rhys. And whether he liked it or not, Tamlin brought an easy laughter out in Rhys that they didn’t see all that often otherwise, a gentler side to him that took centuries off his age. And Rhys seemed to calm Tamlin’s jagged edges, turned the humorless, arrogant Spring Lord into someone who remembered how to relax. If Rhys said he belonged there, Cas wasn’t going to be the one to argue about it. 

At least, not where Rhys could  _ hear _ him.

“This whole thing shouldn’t have happened and you know it,” Azriel said quietly.    


“We’ve been  _ over this, _ ” Rhys snapped. “And over it and over it and over it. My court barely respects me any longer, they spent fifty years without anyone giving them any guidance beyond  _ Keir.  _ He spread so much poison behind my back that I suspect someone was trying to figure out who would become High Lord if I died so they could put a plan in place. They were clamoring for some kind of justice, and I had to control the court. They had to see things returning to normal, and that normal means  _ I  _ decide.”

“Was that Tamlin’s advice?” Cas asked, tilting his head, hardly able to keep the sarcasm out of it.

Rhys snorted. “Shut it, Cas. That was  _ my  _ advice for _ him. _ Our advice for each other. Am…” Rhys visibly struggled to say her name. “Amarantha’s rule upended everything. I’m still working out all the ways in which they started to work against me behind my back while I was gone, all the…” That shadow across his face again. “All the ways that she’s affected things. Just because I don’t have Keir aiming a knife at my back any longer doesn’t mean there aren’t ten more High Fae sharpening their own, eleven if Anuie’s more two-faced than I think he is. Now I’ll be working on it alone, thanks to you throwing yourself in front of him, Az.”

“You won’t be alone,” Azriel said, a smile ghosting across his face, and not entirely a kind one. “You’ll have Tamlin to help you.”

Rhys tilted his head, that coldness back in his face. “Why are the two of you fixated on Tamlin today?”

“We’re not,” Azriel replied, shrugging. “It just bothers you and it’s really hard not to do something with that knowledge. What else are brothers for? Rhys, I want to go with Cassian, and while I am sorry it will make things more difficult for you, I hope you did not come here to try and talk me out of it.”

“I didn’t. I know better - you’re stubborn as hell on a good day, and today… today was not a good day.” Rhys sighed and sat himself down on a bench as well, the three of them watching each other in silence. “I actually came to give you a backup plan.”

Az blinked. Cas watched him shift his weight, thoughtfully, the shadows dancing around his ankles and drifting up alongside his head. “A what?”

Rhys pulled something out of his pocket and held it out in his hand. It was a small, smooth purple stone, slightly dull like a river rock. Cas let his eyes move to Azriel, who looked back at him with one eyebrow raised in curiosity.    


“Well?” Rhys said, quietly. “Someone take it.”

It was Azriel who finally took the rock, holding it in his hand, looking it over. “What is it? It’s warm, like it’s been sitting in the sun.”

“Backup plan. It will only work once, and to be honest I’m not even sure it’ll take both of you, so only use it if you have to. If you need it, just hold it in your hand and tell it where you want to go. You can tell it a place or a person, it can do either. You’ll winnow.”

“They already charmed us so we can’t leave Lawless-” Cas started.

“The charm does the winnowing, so it doesn’t matter. My mother had a few of these saved up with an old friend of hers. I had to ask a favor to get this one back.” Rhys frowned, looking down at it. “But the people who lay the charms down on you will feel them break if you use it, and they’ll know you’re gone.  _ I’ll know  _ if you use it. The Night Court will likely start hunting you as fugitives. You’ll need somewhere safe to hide. Like I said, I can’t even promise it’ll take both of you, my mother had these made back when Ella was small. So… please,  _ please  _ only use it if you have to.”

“Understood,” Azriel said softly, holding the stone in his hand for one more moment before depositing it into his pockets. “Thank you, Rhys.” Azriel looked up, and he and Rhys met eyes. “For this, and for understanding that I need to be with him.”

“I know you do,” Rhys said, smiling a little. “I’m still angry with you for making me look like a fool in front of the whole court, but… I’ve spent a damn long time waiting for one of you to get up the balls to tell the other one. Far be it for me to stand between you now.”

Cas actually laughed at that. “I suppose we should say the same about Tamlin.”

“No,” Rhys said thoughtfully. “Nobody was waiting for  _ that.”  _ There it was, that same look over Rhys’s face that Cas had first seen from his place next to Amarantha’s throne. When Tamlin had gotten himself taken to Amarantha’s tortures just to give Cas a chance at freedom and Rhys, feigning shock and anger, had looked the direction Tamlin had been taken.

All of them were skilled in hiding their emotions when they had to, but Rhys had not been able to hide his love, in that moment. And he wasn’t even trying to hide it now.

“I still don’t get it,” Cas said out loud. “The two of you.”

“You don’t have to,” Rhys replied, calmly. “Neither do I. But we’re… we’re who we are.” Some distant pain flickered in Rhys’s eyes. “We’re broken together, I guess,” He said, and chuckled slightly. 

“Ugh,” Cas muttered. “You’re starting to  _ sound  _ like him, too.”

“Well, you won’t have to listen to how I sound for five years, so I imagine you’ll recover,” Rhys said with a rakish smile. It gradually faded into a serious, concerned expression. “Just make sure you survive this, the both of you. I can’t lose you. I already lost you once-”

“You never did,” Azriel said firmly. “You  _ never  _ did.”

“It felt like it. It felt like you were so far gone from me that I’d never see you again, when I was… down there,” Rhys said, voice slightly faint with the memory of it. “I only just got you back. I only just got back here, and it feels like the court is sending you away  _ because  _ I need you. I’m not sure that isn’t the whole real reason for it, to be honest - that they’re trying to weaken me and somehow get rid of me. Without you, I’ll be more vulnerable.”

“You’ll have Mor,” Cas said, thinking out loud. “And Amren.”

“Neither of them was built to be spymaster or lead my armies. Plus, Amren would get bored and we all know it,” Rhys countered. “And Devlon’s already assumed command of the Illyrians.” Cas rolled his eyes, forcing down the anger, thinking of the smirk on Devlon’s face when he’d watched them take their armor off.

“You’ll get another shadowsinger to serve you,” Azriel shook his head. “I’m not the only one, not by far. I think you’re right, Rhys. This isn’t just a court looking for vengeance. This was engineered to make you weak when you most need to be strong.”

“So what do I do?” Rhys looked between them. “You’ve been my advisers for hundreds of years. Help me on this - advise me, before they send you too far away for me to speak to you.”

“Let them think it worked,” Cas said as Az opened his mouth. The shadowsinger looked at him, and Cas could see the faintest bit of feeling on his face.  _ He’s impressed.  _ “Act like they’ve weakened you. Let them scent blood, and circle, and be proud of themselves. Be angry in public on occasion, and less cruel, more inclined to take their advice and seek them out for counsel. Keep your eyes and your nose to the ground, and figure out what their endgame is before you make any moves. Use Tamlin, they’ll never see him coming.”

That pain on Rhys’s face again. Cas couldn’t quite figure out what it meant. “I can’t  _ use _ Tamlin,” Rhys said, softly. “He is not mine to use.”

“That’s… that’s not-... let me try a different way to say it.” Cas closed his eyes. “Let them think Tamlin has distracted you, that you haven’t noticed what they’re doing. Both of you, while you’re play-acting at being lost in each other, listen. Be your  _ own  _ spymasters. Give it time. They’ll give away what they want, what they’re trying to do, soon enough. Then you’ll be able to move against them, whether you have Az and I with you or not.”

“That’s exactly what I was going to suggest,” Azriel said.

“Well, spend five hundred years following someone around, you’re bound to start picking up each other’s ideas.”

Rhys nodded slowly. “I’ll ask Tamlin. He’s not… I’m not sure if he’ll be comfortable with this. He’s never been good at putting on the act.”

“He got a fuck of a lot better at it Under the Mountain.” Rhys looked up sharply, and Cas shrugged. “I was there for  _ months,  _ Rhys,” He said softly, hands tightening into fists against the memory of her fingers slowly petting through his hair, the silver cuff around his neck. “I saw Tamlin lie, and put on an act in front of her, and do it pretty well. I saw him change into different people, depending on who he was talking to. He had them all believing he had no spirit left in him, that he was totally unable to fight, right up to the second he got me out of there. Don’t underestimate him.”

“I don’t  _ want  _ him to be what he was Under the Mountain any longer,” Rhys said, with more defensive anger than Cas thought was entirely necessary. “It tore him apart then and it would tear him apart even more now. He shouldn’t have to put on an act, if that’s not what he wants. She’s  _ dead _ . It… it hurts him to keep the act up now.”

Cas shrugged. “All of us have to do things we don’t always want to do, be things we don’t always want to be. Tamlin is underestimated by every High Lord in Prythian and nearly all the High Fae, save maybe Thesan - I’ve always thought he knows more than he lets on. Whether you like it or not, there’s something you can  _ use  _ in the way everyone constantly thinks he’s capable of less than he is, especially here. I don’t think you should discard a tool just because the tool has doubts.”

“That’s cold, Cas,” Rhys said softly. “We’re not talking about a hammer. We’re talking about my mate.”

“I’m not trying to be cruel,” Cas replied, hands out. “I’m not… look. I’m just trying to think about what’s best for the Night Lands. You wanted advice, I gave it. If Tamlin were anyone else, my advice would be the same. I know you… care for Tamlin, that the two of you are mates, but he’s not  _ my  _ mate _ ,  _ Rhys. If he were, I’d  _ still  _ have the same advice.”

“Cauldron forbid,” Azriel said. “You’d kill him in his sleep… if he were lucky.” A flicker of that humor again, the barest hint of a smile. “Hell, _ I’d  _ kill him in his sleep just to get him away from you.”

“Jealous?” Rhys asked, a note of teasing in his voice.

“Maybe a little.”

“You asked me to think about how best to control your court, to keep the Night Lands safely ruled by you. That’s what I think. Without Az and I, your weapons are going to be Mor, and Amren, and Tamlin. Maybe Lucien, too - he’s respected by all the Courts, especially now that he’s done such a good job running the Spring Court while Tamlin was… gone. I am just suggesting that you don’t discard any possible options. Just… say you’ll talk to him about it, at least.”

Rhys was quiet for a long time, something vaguely haunted in his expression. Finally, he nodded slowly. “I will.” He stood. “The guards are approaching and I better be winnowed out of here before they arrive, since officially I’m a cruel piece of shit that doesn’t care about you two any more than I do anyone else.” He took in a deep breath, closed his eyes. “Use the stone if you need an escape route, but remember that if you do, you’ll be hunted for breaking your exile. Be safe, the both of you. Be careful.”

“I am always careful,” Azriel said quietly.

“That’s a lie and I know it,” Rhys replied with a snort. “I don’t like this exile, and I’m going to be trying to find ways to have it undone and bring you home. If I can’t…” He sighed, softly. “It’s five years.”

“You were Under the Mountain for fifty-one,” Cas said softly. “We can do five. It’s not that long.”

“At least you’ll be together,” Rhys muttered. “Even if I’m still angry at you for it, Az.”

“I’m angry at him for it, too, if it helps,” Cas said, and grinned. 

Rhys hesitated before he held out his arms, and the Illyrians stepped forward. The three men hugged, with all the affection of their long time as brothers. Finally, Rhys pressed his lips, briefly, to each man's forehead in turn.

“Get out of here, Rhys,” Azriel said quietly, and smiled at him. All his anger from the throne room, it seemed, was gone. Forgiven. “Remember what we said. Figure out what the endgame here is, because just sending the two of us away definitely isn’t it.”

“Use everything you have at your disposal,” Cas added. “Then bring us the fuck home.”

Rhys only smiled at both of them, and went back into the tunnel to winnow himself away.

When the guards arrived some time later, Cas and Az were sitting on benches, as though they’d been there waiting patiently all alone for hours. 

“Is it time?” Azriel asked, watching them carefully. The guards still looked nervous and kept their distance, as though he and Azriel would simply attack and run like hell. Cas had considered it, but…  _ Not with these charms on,  _ Cas thought.  _ We wouldn’t get far.  _

“It is,” One guard said finally, inching away as Az stood himself fully back up and moved closer. “You’re to be transferred. The ship leaves today, so you’re lucky - you won’t have to wait below decks for long.”

“Below decks?” Cas asked. His heart went cold as he pushed himself to his feet.

“In the brig,” One guard said helpfully. “We’ve already looked at the cells, they’re actually pretty big for a ship. So, you know, that should help you.”

Azriel’s eyes went to Cas. “Do you mean Cas will be held in a prison cell?” He asked quietly. “On the ship?”

“You  _ both _ will. Can’t exactly let prisoners roam the decks, right?”

“Will we be together? In the same cell?” Cas folded his hands behind his back, hands gripping each other so tightly it hurt.

“Ah, nah, it doesn’t work that way. But I’ll make sure you’re at least close. Night Court sticks together, right? Don’t worry, they’re open-bar cells. You can see each other, you’re just locked up. It's not bad, as far as prisons go.”

“... right. Locked in. Prison. Of course. Th-thank you,” Azriel said quietly. His scarred hands had begun to shake. 

There was a breeze and Cas fought the feeling that it wasn’t wind at all, but a woman’s fingers gently pushing his hair back away from his face as she laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be posting the next chapter on Saturday! I had some good writing time and got a bit ahead of where I thought I'd be, so I'm going to experiment with a twice-weekly posting schedule and see if I can keep this up.


	7. Shipwreck

Cas and Az were firmly locked in the brig when the ship was attacked twenty-one days later.

They’d at least given them cells next to each other. It wasn’t a long journey, but neither of them would have made it easily separated from the other. The swaying of the ship in the water had kept Azriel green in the face, and while Cas had adjusted more quickly, he still tried not to stand up too often, figuring it wasn’t wise to take chances. 

They’d tied their wings down behind them, although at least they hadn’t tied them together, for the trip. Cas couldn’t imagine why; it wasn’t like they could fly out of a prison cell. Cas knew their armor and Siphons were somewhere on the ship, he’d overheard the sailors muttering to each other about the amount they’d get if they simply sold the lot when they made it to land instead of giving it back. Cas never expected to see it again, but he’d promised himself already that if he got the chance when they landed he’d make them regret stealing from him. 

With his Siphons gone, it took an effort to keep his unfocused power from finding its way out, and there was nowhere safe for it to go. It built and built within him and he found himself performing the old exercises they’d been taught as children in the war camps, ways to focus and channel the power into tiny faelights, letting it out just a bit at a time, never giving it the chance to overwhelm him. Azriel was doing the same - and still both of them had nearly started fires trying to control a power that constantly tried to escape.

The others down here were mostly quiet, aside from the occasional shouted insult. They spoke to each other, now and then, but never to Cas or Az. One prisoner, a female across from the two of them, watched them with glowing sea-green eyes from the back of her cell, but she’d never said a word to anyone. 

There was sometimes a bit of watered wine or kaymil, that high-proof clear liquor that Velarans loved, to make the journey more bearable. There was never enough to dull the pounding panic in Cas’s heart, trapped inside a prison cell in the dank, dark hold of the ship.

Bars, and chains, and no way out. A reeking smell of rot and worse that was pervasive. No sun, no sky, no way to fly. It was all his nightmares come to life - except that his dreams were about Amarantha, and Amarantha’s prison cells didn’t sway. 

Well, they did in his nightmares, this week. He woke from occasional attempts to sleep with his hands tightly held in fists, wanting to fight his way out of his own head. Once he’d woken up punching the bars and nearly busted his hand. When the dreams were truly bad, he’d find Azriel’s cold eyes in his ash-gray face watching him. Cas knew the shadows sometimes let Az see dreams, in hints and flickering images, and he wondered how much Az was picking up and if he slept at all those nights Cas woke up shaking and covered in cold sweat, throwing up into the bucket in the corner of his cell.

Cas had to hope he didn’t see everything. There had been things that happened, in Amarantha’s prisons when she had realized that even chained to her throne he would not break, that he wanted no one else to ever see.

No matter how much Az saw or not, he knew his behavior probably gave him away, at least a little. Whenever anyone came down into the brig, Cas pushed himself against the back wall, as far from the door as he could, kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the floor, obedient. It was all wrong, knowledge twisted up in Amarantha’s prisons and the way they’d sometimes get angry if you were too close when they passed, the way he’d gotten his ass kicked more than once for being too close or talking back, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

Azriel was silent. 

He ate whatever his stomach would allow, took a drink now and then, but hadn’t spoken a word beyond a whispered ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ to the sailors since they’d first turned the key in the lock. His hair fell over his eyes and you could hardly see him for how well he had shrouded himself in his shadows. When he did try to stand, moving carefully to pick up the food they left at the door to his cell, he let his wing drag without even trying to hold it up. 

He stayed where Cas could reach him through the bars, and he would sometimes touch his hand, or a shoulder, just trying to remind Az that he was here. Once, in the middle of the night when every other prisoner had been sleeping, Cas had chanced a kiss to the top of his head, feeling the cold bars on either side of his face. 

Something in Azriel’s shoulders had relaxed, even in his sleep, and Cas had curled up next to him, sticking his hand through the bars to rest it over his. His sleep, though fitful, had at least been dreamless after that.

 If Cas was scared of prison cells, Azriel was  _ terrified _ of locks. The bars were warded against any fae using power to escape, and they were trapped until someone let them out. Even if they had escaped, he wasn’t entirely sure how far from land they were. Az was weak at winnowing and Cas wasn’t any better, and it was too dangerous anyway when you had no idea how far you needed to go. Even with their wings, Cas wasn’t sure Az’s bad wing would make the distance from the middle of the ocean to the next bit of land.

So he minded his manners and was a model prisoner and screamed obscenities inside his head.

This was a Summer Court ship - all the really good seaworthy vessels that left Prythian were made by Tarquin’s people - but it flew no court’s flag. Its crew was a mix of mostly Summer Court and a few sailors from Dawn and Day - including a Peregryn with a right wing that didn’t work, a quiet, sad-faced male who was the one usually assigned to bring them their food. 

The Peregryn had spoken to Azriel only once. He’d startled, the first day they’d sent him down with their food and he’d met Az’s eyes. Cas had thought to himself when he saw him that he looked so out of place in the dingey hold, with the gold-touched dusky skin of the Dawn Court and a fine-boned appearance. He didn’t  _ look  _ like a sailor at all. But his wing dragged, just like Azriel’s, the longer flight feathers worn away or crusted in dust and dirt.

The Peregryn had stopped in front of Azriel’s cell after feeding everyone else, watching him in silence until Azriel finally stirred, dispelling the shadows around him, looking up. He didn’t try and get up from the floor, only turned his blank face on the male from where he sat against the wall. He had curled one wing totally around himself, while the bad wing hung slightly open, resting on the floor.

“What happened to your wing?” The Peregryn had asked, in a warm, deep voice like fog rolling in. 

“Amarantha happened to me,” Azriel said flatly, without looking away. “She intended to take my friend and I for her pets.” Cas felt the Peregryn’s eyes on him and looked away, face burning red with a mix of embarrassment and guilt. “She tried to tear my wing out when I disagreed. What happened to you?” 

“I made a mistake.” The Peregryn’s voice grew a little jagged at the edges. “The kind of mistake you can’t take back. They cut the tendons in my wing.”

“I’m sorry,” Azriel had said quietly in return, and the Peregryn had nodded, once, and left. That had been all they said to one another, but after that the Peregryn brought them their rations every single day, and the food noticeably improved.

The ship flew a flag of black with a white image of manacles and a chain on it, announcing itself as a prison ship. Cas had made note of the deck when they brought he and Azriel on board, but the only other thing he’d seen was a ladder and the brig.

Eleven males down here, aside from he and Cas, and one female. Each of them sentenced to be forgotten in Lawless.

The sea had been rocky at first (which had led to Azriel getting incredibly sick into the bucket they’d put in the corner of his cell), but it had finally gone mostly calm and Cas had heard the sailors discussing what good time they were making, the wind at their backs exactly the way they’d hoped it would be. They intended to visit a bar, some kind of regular haunt. 

Cas figured if they felt safe enough to go off ship to get blasted drunk, there must be some kind of real town on Lawless. He’d have to make the most of that knowledge when he got there.

The Peregryn had brought lunch down and Cas was resolutely forcing himself to eat the dry, old bread and bit of salted meat they’d provided when he heard a sound from above that he couldn’t quite place. He went still, cocking his head. It was a clang of metal on metal, a shout. 

The other prisoners were still talking and finally Cas said, loudly, with all his long time in command in his voice, “Shut up.”

There was a moment of silence. Cas had not spoken to a single other prisoner the whole nearly three weeks, except for Az. “Hey,” One brutishly huge man, who had been manacled after he tried to break out, said, “you’re not in charge down here-”

“I said shut up,” Cas said again, putting up one hand. “Do you hear that?” He stood himself up, carefully, feeling Azriel’s eyes on his back even as he had totally disappeared with his lunch into the shadows in the corner. “ _ Listen _ . What is that sound?”

There it was again. A faint, muffled  metallic sound. Soft shouting, but not the normal kind, the sailors yelling to each other as they went about their business. No, there was a note of panic to this shouting. He could hear thumps on deck, like people running, or jumping.

Cas moved to the front of his cell, leaning against the bars of the door, listening as hard as he could. That was the captain’s voice shouting now, some kind of command, suddenly cut off by a distant  _ boom,  _ a high-pitched whistle of air. The whole ship seemed to jerk to one side and shudder a few seconds later.

It was the one female prisoner who spoke first. “Gonna guess someone thinks there’s valuable cargo on this ship.” She looked right at Cas. “Those sounds you’re hearing are our ship coming under attack.” She was a Summer Court fae, like most of the sailors, dark skinned with a line of piercings up her left eyebrow studded with pale stones like sea glass, sun-faded blue tattoos marking her entire face and neck. “Pirates?”

“I don’t know,” Cas said, fingers curling around the bars. “Is there anything valuable on this ship?”

Azriel spoke for the first time. “There’s a shadowsinger and the former commander of the Night Land armies, at least. We’ve got information that could be tortured out of us, if nothing else.”

“Somebody already tried torturing me for information,” Cas snapped, thinking of his nightmares, of her prisons, of the guards’ raucous laughter. “It didn’t go well for them.”

“You’re a shadowsinger?” The female fae barked a laugh. “Commander of the… Wait, I know you, don’t I?” She looked back at Cas. “I’d have recognized you sooner if you didn’t hide behind your hair all the time down here. You’re, um... Cat! Cah-something! The one that brought down the aviary Nostrus was so proud of!”

“ _T_ _ hat was one building! _ Besides, it wasn’t finished, there weren’t even any birds in it,” Cas muttered. 

The prisoners began to stir as the noises above their heads grew louder. Whatever was happening up there, the tenor of the muffled shouts they could hear suggested it wasn’t going well. There were mutterings and curses and the beginnings of panic. None of them could escape the bars, they were all charmed for Lawless just like he and Az. The captain had sworn to them these bars were made to hold fae with power. And none of the sailors, if any were still alive, seemed inclined to come down here and give them a fighting chance.

The sounds continued, each round of cannon fire coming closer and closer. He could feel the ship rock a couple of times with the impacts. All of them listened. Cas’s fingers were clenched around the bars, and he could feel his power trying desperately to find some focus, some way out.

The bars began to melt, just slightly, where he held them. Cas jerked his hands back, stared down at them, then at the bars. “The captain said we couldn’t do that.”

The fae on the other side of Azriel, a Dawn Court male, whistled softly. "Better than I expected," He said.

“I’ve tried breaking mine and got nowhere at all,” The Summer Court fae said, clearly impressed. “Can you get all the way through? Some corpse around here is going to have a keyring on it.” She paused. “Unless that corpse is floating in the ocean.”

Azriel stood up, his hands out for balance and his face still a little green, struggling harder than seemed altogether necessary to make it to stand at the front of his own cell. “We’re stronger than most Illyrians, stronger than the kind of fae this ship was designed to hold,” Azriel said quietly, his voice shaking only a little as the ship rocked under another impact. This time, Cas thought, it felt like it didn’t quite recover. “Can you open the door, Cas?” 

“If I try I might knock a hole through the whole damn ship,” Cas replied, just above a whisper.

“Sounds to me like we already have a few holes in the ship,” The Summer fae said with a rakish grin. “One more that I can actually swim out of sounds good to me. I’m Kealah, by the way. Seems like if we’re all going to die together today we might as well know each other’s names.”

“I’m Elder,” said a High Fae a few cells down.

“No one cares, Elder!" A different prisoner called out.

“Wasn’t talking to you,” Kealah said, without taking her eyes off of Cas and Az. “I was talking to the devastatingly handsome Illyrian.”

“Which one?” Az asked, and Cas glanced over at him, surprised to see his humor coming back. Then again, Az’s strangely wicked sense of humor only really seemed to show when they were knee-deep in death anyway. Made sense now would be the time for it to make an appearance.

“I’m Cassian,” Cas said, looking around the brig. She was right, of course - he could feel the ship starting to list, just slightly. There was a soft rushing sound coming from somewhere nearby. Cas didn’t know one damn thing about sailing, but… you probably weren’t supposed to be able to hear water  _ inside  _ a ship... 

“Cassian! Right!,” Kealah said, still grinning. “Remember me? From the aviary?”

“Right. Again, that was  _ one building _ , the  _ one time _ , and I was very, very drunk.”

“I was  _ also  _ drunk and that is my official story for why I did not stop him,” Azriel said, his voice deceptively smooth and careless despite the look of extreme nausea still on his face. “That and he just looked really…” Azriel trailed off, a far-off look in his eyes..

“He looked really what?” Kealah asked,  _ very  _ interested.

“What did I look like?” Cas asked, wondering if that sentence really ended the way he hoped it did.

“Nothing. Unimportant. I am Azriel. Nice to meet you, Kealah.” The ship dipped hard to one side and Cas  _ saw  _ the green travel over his face as he steadied himself, one hand over his stomach. 

Another  _ boom  _ sounded and hit hard on their side of the ship. Violently thrown backwards by the impact, Cas kept his feet only because he was already hanging onto the bars. Kealah smacked into hers as she was thrown forward, and Azriel actually skidded along the floor. He  _ saw _ the cannonball break through an inside wall into the brig, crashing through at least three walls before it finally made it to the floor. 

The sound of water pouring in from the ocean became much, much louder.

“If anyone has any ideas, this would be a great time to share them,” Kealah said loudly. “Anyone at all?  _ Any  _ ideas?”

“Cas,” Azriel said softly. He was standing back up from where he’d fallen when the cannonfire came through. “You’re better at destruction than I am. We can break the ship up and get out.”

“We don’t have our Siphons,” Cas hissed back. “I can’t focus for shit. You can get out, just use the stone and go back-”

“What in the name of all possible gods would lead you to believe I would walk away from you  _ now? _ ” Azriel snorted. “Not even a little bit on the table, Cas. I am with you, whether you want me here or not.” Kealah looked back and forth between them as if watching a really fascinating game taking place.

“The ship is taking on water, Az,” Cas snapped. “We don’t have a lot of options! We won’t do him any good floating around in the middle of the ocean!”

“But I’ll do  _ you  _ more good right here with you. I’m telling you, Cas, break the ship up,” Az replied. “You could do it. My power isn’t… like that. I can’t.”

“The sailors-”

“Are either dead or they know how to swim.” Az stuck his hand through the wall of bars that connected their cells. “Trust me, Cas. Please.” He gripped onto it with his own, feeling the roughness of the scars as Az’s fingers wrapped around his. He turned, looking into Az’s face, and smiled, just slightly, leaning forward. They leaned their foreheads together, the cold iron bars of their cell on either side of their faces. Azriel, face still green around the edges, smiled gently. 

“Well, well,  _ well _ ,” Kealah said, without any particular rancor, “It’s like that with you two, then. Damn, here I thought I'd found someone I could take to bed.”

“What makes you think Az’d stop me?” Cas asked, just to see the look on Az’s face.

“Never said it was you I wanted to take, did I? I guess that tells us why  _ you two _ got exiled.”

“That’s not why,” Cas said, rolling his eyes. “Our High Lord doesn’t care. What do _ you _ mind? You’re Summer Court.”   


“Sure, and it doesn’t bother me - I’d pay good money to watch, even.” There were some shouts of disgust from further down the line. “Ah, cool it, you ignorant asses, you’d watch ‘em too, they’re that pretty.” There were at least two shouts of assent, and Cas felt his face burn and refused to look and see which prisoners those shouts had come from. “But…” She tapped her fingernails against the bars of her cell, watching them with bright eyes. “I know you’re Night Landers, and I know they have all sorts of feelings about that up there. Especially for the ones with wings.”

“We have a name, you know.”

“Sure, and I’d love to hear all about your no doubt illustrious people. You can share that valuable information with me _ after  _ you get us the fuck off of a sinking ship.”

The shouts from up on deck had stopped. The metallic sounds, which Cas knew now must have been swords, had gone silent. All they could hear was the sound of water rushing in somewhere deeper belowdecks, the feel of the ship slowly beginning to list harder to the right. “Why aren’t they coming down? At least to let us fend for ourselves?”

“The sailors are dead and gone by now, I imagine. At least, we haven’t heard them in a while.” Azriel said thoughtfully. “But you’d think pirates would be interested, at least…”

“Well, ships taking on water aren’t usually a great prize for pirates-” Kealah started.

“No,” Azriel said, understanding dawning in his eyes. “They’d be down here if they were pirates, trying to get something of value out of the ship before it went down.”

“They’re not pirates,” Cas said. “They’re here to kill us, aren’t they?”

“Us?” Kealah asked, surprisingly unruffled. “Or just you?”

Cas turned to look at her, startled by the glow of her sea-green eyes in her dark skin. Her hair was white, shaved close on the sides and long on the top and the back, twisted into a mixture of small braids studded with clay beads. 

“Us,” He said firmly. “You don’t sink a ship to kill two people. You wait for them to get on land and kill them then. They clearly want all of you dead, too.”

“No survivors, no witnesses. Cas,” Azriel said again, and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back. “Break us out. All of us.”

“I can’t aim-”

“Just give them a chance.” Azriel shook his head. “If whatever is attacking us is here for  _ us _ , it’s not fair to trap them down here because of it. Give them a chance. I’d rather drown out there in the water than here behind a blocked door. You’re better at breaking things than I am.”

“Like the aviary, for instance,” Kealah piped up. “You broke that really, really well.”

“I sure as fuck hope you never bring that up again after this. I was drunk, I was trying to impress a female, and it was  _ just the one building. _ ”

“ _ I  _ thought it was  _ very  _ impressive how foolish you were willing to be,” Azriel said helpfully.

“Assuming I live through you busting up the ship and then having to swim in the ocean, I absolutely do promise I will never bring it up again. Don’t let Tarquin lie to you, he thought it was  _ hilarious  _ when it happened. Besides…” Kealah raised her pierced eyebrow. “Get me to the water and out from behind these fucking iron bars and I can make sure all these men survive.”

A cannonball burst into the brig, scattering splinters and wood, and they all threw themselves down at the whistling impact. Shards of wood went everywhere. Cas had to brace himself to stay standing and he was on the other end of the hall.

There was a silence, filled only by the sound of the water beginning to pour in. Cas could see it now, in the direction the ship was listing, a shimmer in the darkness as it began to rise. His heart began to beat in his throat. They’d been left, _ abandoned _ , to drown behind locked bars.

“Well, I can save everyone but him,” Kealah said, pointing. The cannonball had absolutely demolished a jail cell and there wasn’t much left of the prisoner who had been in there beyond a dark smear that Cas really, really did not want to look any more closely at. That left ten male prisoners, Kealah, Cas, and Az.

“Get her to the water already!” One of the prisoners, an Autumn Court High Fae who looked like a nobleman thoroughly surprised and dismayed to find himself in this mess, shouted in blind panic. “Before we all drown!”

“Fine. Fine, okay.” He turned to look at Az, letting his fingertips graze along the line of his face for just a moment. Az’s eyes closed at the feeling. 

“Get me out from behind these locks, Cas,” Azriel whispered. 

“I made you a promise,” Cas said, softly. “I’ll get you out of here or die trying.” Cas turned back, looking at the bars of his cell, and the bars of  _ all  _ the cells, taking a deep, slow breath. “I hope you can all shield yourselves,” He said loudly, giving them a second to at least try. “Illyrians don’t do well without a way to make our power behave. I have absolutely no idea what will happen when I let it loose.” Then he looked at Azriel. “Do you know how to swim?”

“Kind of.” 

“Yeah,” Cas said, and grinned. “I kind of do, too. Here we go.”

He closed his eyes, put his hands up against the bars, and tried to focus. He felt the red behind his eyelids more than saw it, displacing the air around him, pushing it outward in a ring like ripples on a pond.

Nothing happened. 

The power stopped at the bars and then roiled back on him and Cas winced, taking a step back as pain lit his skin from inside.

Kealah groaned. “Well, we’re all going to die,” She announced, without any real fear in her voice. She turned to address the rest of the prisoners. “I hope you’ve all made peace with the Mother. I really hope you don’t need to pray, I’m not the praying type and I’m pretty sure nothing holy has stepped foot on this ship in a long damn time.”

“I haven’t spoken to my mother in decades,” Said one of the prisoners, morosely.

"Eh, mine was pretty awful," the Dawn Court male said with a shrug. 

Kealah rolled her eyes. “Not  _ that _ mother-”

“Wait,” Cas interrupted. “Let me try again. I was trying to wield it, to tell it what to do. Let me just let it go.”

He pressed his hands against the bars, really pressed them. Thought about how if this didn’t work, it wasn’t just his own life that would be lost, but Azriel’s, too. That it might be pirates up there, but Cas had a suspicion that they hadn’t been pirates at all - they’d been there specifically to take down a ship and make sure Cas and Az, wings tied and locked in prison cells, went down with it.

Cassian pictured Amarantha’s wild, mad smile, the way she would play with his hair while she was thinking. The nights she’d kept him out of the prisons only to force him to sleep on the floor of her bedroom, the chain that ran from his neck hooked to a ring in the wall. “ _ So many must be broken through tragedy, _ ” She said one night, watching Cas watch her right back. “ _ With you all it will take is indignity, drawn out long enough. _ ”

_ All of this was because of her.  _

He thought of the way he’d felt like his power would never come back, those moments when he’d forgotten he was even wearing the silver cuffs she’d put on him, the way each day those moments lasted longer and longer. He still had terrified nightmares about waking up to discover they had never come off. 

Nightmares he assumed Azriel occasionally saw.

_ This is all Amarantha’s fault. _

He felt power burning to get out and this time he didn’t try to focus it or narrow it down, didn’t try to keep it back or control it or decide where it went. Amarantha had taken him over, and what she’d left of him had been the darkest part of his mind, the part that  _ wanted.  _ Cas did that for himself this time. He told the power what he  _ wanted.  _

_ I want to get the fuck out of here. _

He felt power melting out of him like lava running out of a volcano as invisible veins tore open, searing the bars of the prison cells under his fingers. They ran like rain to the floor, hissing steam as they made their way to the growing flood of ocean water. The walls around them began to creak, and a shudder ran through the whole ship. It let out a groaning wail, like the cry of some dying monster. 

“So far so good,” Az said. He could barely hear the other male’s voice over the rushing water and the sound of his power inside his head. “Keep going, Cas, you’ve almost got it.”

Cas told his power what he  _ wanted.  _

Back when they’d been on their knees before Amarantha and she had been breaking Azriel’s wing bone by bone, she had told him she would take he and Azriel down there and they would never see the sun again. For a second, he’d believed her, and he’d thought…  _ Fine. You win. We’re yours. Just take us. I’m so tired of fighting you. Just take us home, down in the dark. Just stop hurting him and I'll kneel at your feet forever. _

He had  _ not  _ kept Azriel alive this long only for the two of them to die now. 

_ I want to get Azriel off this fucking ship. _

Cas threw his head back, trying to scream without sound as the ship around them suddenly exploded.

Agony licked at his skin like a lover as everything burst into planks and boards, boxes and splinters, flying metal and piles of cloth and rope. For a moment they were all simply standing in nothing, in space, floating in the center of a ship-shaped bit of displaced air. Cas fell into nothing as unSiphoned power tore him apart.

He  _ burned _ . He did not fall down. He did not land. He simply stopped, his hands still out to hold back the water, and he burned.

There were bodies of already-dead sailors blown away into the water, outside the bubble of air he’d created around them. What had happened on this ship wasn’t piracy, but a massacre. If this had all been to ensure he and Az never came back, those sailors had died because of him. 

_ Because of Amarantha. Stop doing this to yourself. All of it goes back to her, in the end. You don’t wear guilt well, Cas, so learn to shrug it off. _

The line of the ocean was far above their heads. They must have fallen downward when the ship was gone, Cas’s power bleeding out of him in a protective circle that held them all, the air thin and sparked with magic. Cauldron, it  _ burned  _ in veins that ran alongside his blood, beat next to his heart, his power screamed in his ears like a wild animal caught in a snare. He could still feel the ropes that tied each wing down against his back, gritting his teeth. He could not fly and when he tried to get the power within him to cut the ropes, it simply refused to do anything so small, shrieked louder, clamored inside his head for release. Cas felt the weight of the ocean pressing in, trying to get into the circle of safety he’d built around them.

He burned, and he was turning to ash too fast, the power was running itself dry and he couldn’t seem to pull it back in. It burned through his fingers and he hissed.  _ Not yet, damn it, not yet- _

He needed one more eruption of his power. Controlled by his Siphons, he could use it day after day in battle as long as he had some time to recharge at night. Unfocused like this, it bled out.

Just one more eruption. One more. The power fought and kicked and snarled like a living thing - he couldn’t  _ focus _ \- and he felt blood running from his nose. He looked from side to side, trying to figure out if he was falling or flying, realizing he was doing neither and nothing. He had his hands pressed out as though he could hold the water back with his fingers alone, and he saw blood blisters under his fingernails welling up, filling in red.

He’d had Siphons since before he’d even ended up at the war camp where he trained. They’d made sure he had some as early as they could, as the unfocused power he’d had even as a child had frozen water in the well, burst trees to splinters, burned down houses. He hadn’t had to use it like this, wrapping your arms around a massive wildfire and asking it only to burn in your chosen direction, since he was a toddler learning to fly.

_ Help me,  _ he prayed to nothing in particular.  _ Help me. _

“Your eyes are gone,” Azriel said next to him, only the slightest tremor betraying his surprise and unease. The prisoners flailing around them, trying to find some surface to stand on, were shouting or just staring wide-eyed at Cas, safely entombed in a bubble of air, closed in on every side by the weight and the water of the ocean.

“I can see just fine,” Cassian snapped. He was going to collapse under the pressure. The weight of the water was too much. He couldn’t keep this up.  _ Just one more eruption. Come on, just one more…  _

“They’ve gone white, like…” Azriel didn’t say it, but Cas heard what he was thinking anyway.  _ Like that thing Lucien woke up. Like the mortal god.  _

“I can see  _ just fine,  _ I’ve got this under control.” He  _ heard _ it in his voice, too, twining around and underneath it, a second, deeper sound, another male’s voice that was far older than his own. The uncontrolled, wild power inside of him, speaking his words alongside him.

He burned and bled and it took all his warrior’s control not to scream.

“You don’t have-”

“ _ I’ve got this under control, Azriel! _ ”

The unSiphoned power’s voice was not a kind one.

He could feel tears running from the corners of his eyes, surreally hot against his skin, like nearly-boiling water. One ran into his mouth and the taste of copper made Cas realize his eyes were  _ bleeding _ . The ocean pressed in and Cas pushed back, teeth ground together, power running out of him too fast, too fast. He let the power’s voice speak louder than his own. As a flame he could not touch or see lit his spine, his back arched and he stared up into a blue sky above their heads. If he could just hold back the ocean, they could get up there... “I can see fine. I can see _ fine _ . We’re fine. We just need to-”

“Cas, let me,” Azriel said softly, the strength back in him once those locks were melted and gone. He reached out, pulling Cas’s hands in, in the nothing they stood - or flew - or simply existed - in. “Let me try to help you.”

Cas groaned as his well of power simply ran dry, dizziness overtaking him. The bubble of air around them burst and water began to pour in. His power wasn’t made to be used like this, he felt so empty, he felt like ashes and bone in the shape of an Illyrian. He wanted to fall to his knees but he had nothing to kneel on, everything  _ burned _ .

_ What  _ was _ Illyrian power made of? _

“It hurts-”

He pushed again, and held the water back, but just barely. His bones were on fire. White began to ring his vision, white and blurry red. He was going to burn to ash in the ocean as it dragged them under-

“If only to stop you from being absolutely fucking terrifying, let me get this one,” He heard from his right side, and turned to see Kealah close her brilliant eyes, a gentle smile on her face. She held out her hands and twisted the rushing water underneath their feet, spread it into a solid plank that supported them. “Let go, General Cassian,” Kealah said softly. “Let the water go.”

Cas let his hands drop, watching numbly as blood ran out from under his fingernails, suddenly feeling like all of his insides had been carved out and removed and he was a porcelain shell, like to shatter if he hit the ground.

“Thank you kindly,” Kealah said brightly, as she  _ pushed. _

 All of them were  _ propelled  _ up into the air by the force of rising water, and for just a moment, Cas saw sky and air and tried to fly.

His wings were still tied, of course, so instead he fell right back into the water, Az splashing right down beside him.

_ Thank the Cauldron _ , he thought,  _ that the sailors had not wanted to chain them _ . He wasn’t much of a swimmer but he could at least keep his head above water, and he grabbed onto Azriel, who was flailing next to him, trying to make his way for a large floating dresser from the captain’s cabin he could see nearby. There were still splinters and planks raining down on them, and Cas had to briefly duck his head under the water to avoid getting hit in the head with a bag of something he didn’t recognize. The saltwater washed the bloody tears off of his face and the blood from under his fingers, stung against a thousand tiny wounds that had opened on his body.

One of the dresser’s drawers was open and Cas grinned as he found a bulging bag of coins inside, soaking wet but intact. Looked like the captain had been keeping some coin back for himself. Cas grabbed onto it and decided to call it payment for a bad few days.

“There!” Kealah called, standing on the water like you might any nice floor, and pointed. “There’re the bastards that got us!” Cas, and all the other struggling prisoners, turned to look.

There was another ship, off in the distance, nearly over the horizon, making quick headway in the other direction. Sails were pushed unnaturally despite the total lack of wind, which meant someone from the Spring Court must be pushing it along. They couldn’t see what flag it flew from here, but it looked as though the whole thing had been painted black once and only streaks of the color now remained, the rest eaten away by saltwater and time. 

All around them were the bodies of the sailors, floating or lying on some bit of debris they’d tried to save themselves with. Cas craned his head, squinting against the afternoon sun’s reflection off the water, but he didn’t see the Peregryn anywhere. There was a jolt when he saw feathers, only to realize he was looking at the captain’s feathered hat and his body floating in the water next to it. He could just barely see a wisplight, one of the tiny chiming faelights that you could use to send a message, flying across the sea.

“This was a Summer Court ship,” Cas choked out as he grabbed onto the dresser. Az held on with white-knuckled fingers, too. “They attacked Tarquin’s ship. This is an act of fucking  _ war. _ ”

“Tarq’s going to be pissed,” Kealah said thoughtfully, still standing right on the water, crossing her arms in front of herself. “He won’t know for a while, though. And no one will know who did it, and there’s no way to find out. That’s some damn fine crime on the high seas. Honestly, I’m not even mad, just impressed.”

“ _ I’m _ pretty mad,” Cas muttered.

“You call your High Lord  _ Tarq _ ?” The Autumn Court noble, arms thrown over a plank of wood about as long as Cas was tall, called out. “Eris would have me flogged for that. They say only his brother gets to call him by a nickname.”

“Sure I do,” Kealah said with a vicious grin. “I used to be his First Mate, before he became High Lord. I’ve called him a lot worse than his name. That rat bastard still owes me money and I intend to make him pay up someday, plus interest.”

“I feel like there’s a  _ fascinating  _ story there,” Cas called out, his hands slipping on the dresser, scrabbling to get a better grip. “It just seems like now isn’t the best time. Can you get us to Lawless without dying? Swear I’ll buy you a drink and you can tell us then? Assuming you pay for drinks there with money?”

“Where’d you get money, prisoner?” Kealah smirked.

“I stole it,” Cas snapped back, but he felt a hint of his wicked grin on his own face, as well. “I’m a criminal now, remember?”

“Someone didn’t  _ want _ this ship to make it to Lawless,” Azriel said. Water had plastered his hair to his head and he looked infinitely younger like this, floating up to his shoulders in the water, holding onto the dresser with his fingers curled around a half-open drawer. 

“All I did was kill a couple of nobles over a prize rosebush,” One if the prisoners said, his tone once of consummate resignation to his circumstances. “And now this. I’ll never win next decade’s contest now.”

“You did  _ what  _ over a prize rosebush?” Cas groaned. “Never mind - no, shut your mouth right now, I absolutely do not want to know. I’m a criminal, but I’m not  _ mad.  _ Kealah? I don’t suppose you can get us to land?”

Kealah looked down at them, staring around at the floating men in a half-circle around her, weighing her options. Cas looked as well and realized that they were down a few prisoners and winced. His power had not protected them all, apparently. Seven males instead of eleven, now. Plus Cas and Az, and Kealah. 

Salt water stung cuts he couldn’t even see, and he hissed. “Az, am I… my eyes…”

“You’re back to normal.” Az was smiling, just a little. “That was a hell of a thing to watch. You looked like a faerie-tale monster.”

“Yeah, well, next time _ you  _ get to do it and _ I  _ get to watch.”

Azriel’s smile changed, a little, and he reached out a hand, still gripping white-knuckled onto the dresser with the other. Cas laughed breathlessly, half at the ridiculousness of the moment, half in simple relief and joy at being alive, and shook it. “Deal,” Az said softly.

“I think I can,” Kealah said finally, apparently having come to her decision. “We’re close to Lawless now, only about three hours if we go very fast, really. I can get them there.”

“You can  _ feel  _ the  _ land?” _

Kealah laughed. “Hell no. Land is dead dirt to me. But look-” She pointed, and Cas followed her gesture to see birds circling above them. “Those are seabirds - krennas, from the continent. They hunt fish but they’re land dwellers, so we can’t be too far out. We can follow them back to Lawless.”

“What did you do to get thrown into exile?” Cas asked. When she blinked down at the sudden change in subject, he grinned, wet hair stuck to his forehead and the sides of his face. “I just want to know before I decide whether you’re friendly or a threat.”

Kealah laughed. “Illyrian, I am both. I’ll tell you over that drink. I can’t carry us all in water, but… hold on.” Cas felt thin trickle of water over his wings and he jerked. “Hold still, dumbass, I’m trying to help you. Hey, you, Winter Court - help me with this.” He closed his eyes, fighting the instinct that told him to struggle against it. 

Azriel shifted  uncomfortably next to him, water running the wrong way up his back as well. The water slid underneath the ropes that held them and began to freeze and expand. Cas had to close his eyes against the pain of something that cold against the sensitive skin of his wings. After a few agonizing moments, the ropes that that held his wings fell away, cut by jagged edges of the ice. He said a silent prayer of thanks to the Mother that he had not been born a Peregryn; feathers would have been too waterlogged to get in the air, but his thin membranous skin had no such problems. “If you two can fly,” Kealah said cheerfully “I can get the rest of us.”

Azriel’s wings were freed too, and Cas watched him stretch them, one opening further than the other. “Thank you, Kealah,” Az said with his usual consummate politeness. “What do we do then?”

Cas pushed himself onto the dresser, which dipped alarmingly under his weight, Az dipping back into the water up to his nose and coming back up sputtering. Cas crouched down, his fingers in water, and then pushed himself off, wings wide to catch the faintest breeze that could carry him into the air. 

“I guess we report to the proper authorities,” Kealah said with a shrug. “I certainly don’t want Tarquin thinking I’m dead - he’d be too damn happy about it, for one. Or he’d mourn my death and be a giant mess. It’s actually hard to tell with him? Kind of depends on how recently I pissed him off about something.”

Azriel got himself into the air, too, and Cas tried not to think about the effort it took him to keep his left wing in check and hold himself up. 

“I can’t imagine Tarquin being happy that  _ anyone _ was dead,” Cas called down to her. “He seems so… disturbingly nice.”

“You’d be surprised,” Kealah said and twisted the water again. “He’s much nicer now that he gets to make all the decisions, I’m sure. But just trust me… nobody gets to the head of the navy by being  _ nice,  _ Cassian.” The prisoners were lifted, buoyed by it, and they began to move towards land. Kealah simply walked on the water. Cas could see the way her jaw was tight, though, her hands in fists. She was going to use herself up just getting them all to Lawless. 

Azriel, working to stay up beside him, began to fly the way the krennas had come from, a thoughtful, serious expression on his face. Cas flew up alongside him. “What do you think?” He asked, and watched Azriel look at him sidelong, hair still damp and slightly crusted with salt from the seawater.

“I think someone is going to be furious when they learn we’re not dead,” Azriel said grimly.


	8. Insurgent

Kealah got them to shore in less than two and a half hours. By the end, Cas could see what it was costing her, pushing against the limits of whatever well of power was inside her. The Summer Court could control water, but no one’s power was endless, and the ocean was much larger, and harder to control, than a river or a bay.

She held the surviving seven male fae using the water, which the Winter Court prisoner had hardened around them into a kind of ice-boat to carry them the rest of the way. She herself simply walked, folding the water beneath her like cloth, covering the distance quickly. 

Cas and Az flew, and Cas tried not to think about the grim set to Azriel’s jaw, the way his face was chalk-white, how his shoulder must be screaming at him. _ Two years ago _ , Cas thought, _ he could have flown for days on end without a rest. _

Land started as a speck on the horizon and gradually became a thin, slightly curving dark line, widening and straightening out until they could see the flat beach of the coastline, a few docks with only some small fishing boats hooked to them, and then the rise of a series of ramshackle buildings that crawled up the side of a fairly steep hill, seemingly built one atop the other like a child might build a city out of toy logs, winding and twisting straight to the top, where a larger building stood on the plateau. 

Lawless, it turned out, was not entirely an accurate name. There were laws, of a sort, at least here for those who had just landed. And one of those laws was to report to the local authorities upon arrival.

Kealah got them to shore and fell onto her hands and knees on the beach, breathing hard, her dark skin pale with the effort she’d expended, coughing up seawater onto the sand. Cas landed as gently as he could beside her, Azriel stumbling slightly to the ground her other side, and they each offered her a hand. She took both and rose, brushing the wrinkles out of her loose, dust-smeared blue linen top and pants while the other prisoners simply stood, jaws open, looking at the small seaside town.

It looked like what might happen if you tried to build a town using only found materials, half-choked magic, and a bunch of criminals who had never done a day’s honest work in their lives and it was frankly a miracle any of the buildings were standing. The sun was lower on the horizon than it had been before, and the clear blue sky stretched over their heads with a tangible weight.

“Thank you, Kealah,” Azriel said, rubbing at his left shoulder with his right hand as he looked around thoughtfully. He seemed to sway, slightly, on his feet, and Cas watched his face turn greenish again. When Cas went to put out a hand to touch his shoulder, he realized the ground was still moving under his feet, too, even though he wasn’t on a ship any longer.

Kealah blinked over at the two of them as they awkwardly tried to balance themselves and laughed, breathlessly. “Let me guess - you boys have never gone on a long-distance sailing trip before?”

Cas gave her an even, hostile look. “We prefer to fly. We’ve never gone anywhere we had to take a ship to.”

“Don’t worry,” She said, a little more gently. “You just picked up sea legs while we were sailing. No doubt worse since you never went up above decks to get some air. Give it a day or two, your land legs’ll come back. You won’t even notice, it’ll be so gradual. Thank you,” She said gently, “for breaking us out, Cassian. I’m especially grateful that you didn’t kill any of us or yourself. Well, any of us who weren’t already dead. Mostly. Okay, I’m just grateful you didn’t kill _me._ _Anyway_ , we should go report.”

“Why?” The Autumn Court noble asked, pressing at his clothing. “As far as any of them know, we went down with the ship. Why should I give a damn if Eris knows I lived? I’m better off if he thinks I didn’t.” His hands glowed a gentle reddish yellow as he used magic to dry his shirt and pants out.

“Because that’s what you do when you get to Lawless,” Kealah said with a shrug. “You tell ‘em you made it and they stamp a piece of paper, send your people a wisplight, and you’re on your way.”

“How do you know that?” Cas asked, frowning.

“Because I used to be part of the escort crew, way back before I joined the navy and ended up chained to Tarquin’s side for two decades. What, you think I sprang fully formed from my mother’s forehead as Tarquin’s First? I don’t intend to disappear. I told you, he owes me money. I want him to know he won’t get rid of me that easy.”

The Autumn Court lordling looked suddenly nervous. “Do you think  _ your lord  _ did this?”

“Nope. I think whoever tried to take us out was after  _ them _ ,” Kealah said, jerking a thumb at Cas and Az. “And I intend to keep the hell away from them as soon as Cassian buys me that drink.”

That reminded him; he still had the bag of coins he’d stolen from the captain clutched in one hand. Probably more money than one sailor made in a year. He could have kept it all for himself and Az, but…

_ But you’re not a criminal, even if they call you one now. Don’t start to act like it. Fighting for what you need to survive is noble enough. Stick to what you know, Cas. Taking a dead man’s money isn’t a crime, but keeping it all for yourself seems like one. _

“Wait, everyone,” Cas said, and the eight others turned back to him.

They were a mix of High and lesser fae, nobles and common people. Each of them, he thought, had committed crimes worthy of banishment in the eyes of their lords. The Autumn Court noble had probably been a loyalist to Beron and plotted against Eris. It had been a Winter Court lesser fae who had frozen the water into a boat for them to sit in and helped Kealah to free their wings, and he could have been any kind of criminal… Kallias did not like prisons. He sent most of his into exile, and very few ever returned.

Cas wondered if the Dawn Court Peregryn that had brought them their food had survived, the sad-eyed male who had recognized another wounded winged creature in Azriel immediately. Probably not, if he couldn’t fly. Those feathers would get waterlogged and drag him down.

There was that guilt again, that Cas tried hard to shove away.

_ Amarantha’s fault, not mine. But I could have made her kill me rather than let it come to this, couldn’t I? Or just resigned myself to her throne, like Rhys did, to keep everyone else safe. _

_ Granted, that bullshit didn’t work that well for him, either... _

He handed an equal number of coins to each prisoner, and watched gratitude bloom on the faces of hardened males. Even Kealah smiled at him with more sincerity when she realized she received a share, too. Azriel took his without word, but there was admiration shining in those hazel eyes that Cassian loved, a light he tried to live up to.

“You didn’t have to share that with us,” Said the fae who had mentioned the rosebush contest. He’d be Spring Court, then, Cas thought. One of Tamlin’s subjects. Tamlin hadn't mentioned sending anyone into exile, but then it was entirely possible Lucien had been the one to hand the sentence down. “That was good of you.”

“Yeah, well, let’s hope I don’t regret it soon enough. Call it a pre-emptive ‘don’t stab me in the back, I literally do not give a shit about your roses’ bribe, that sound good?”

“You would if you  _ saw  _ them,” The Spring Court fae muttered, but he nodded.

A tree fae, one who looked so much like Cas’s prison guard that he fought hard against the urge to back away from him, nodded. “You’ll have my friendship, for what it’s worth,” he rumbled. Cas tried not to shudder, wondering whatever had happened to Shuffle-Step, the only guard in Amarantha’s prison who had ever shown him kindness, who for that first six months had been the only guard not to treat him like vermin, who had helped him to escape and read their letters to him in the dark, the rattle of the chain the only sign that Cas was shaking with holding back tears as he listened.

“My name is General Cassian,” Cas said to them all. “I guess just Cassian now. I’m here for five years.”

The tree fae’s bark face broke apart into a smile. “I’m Crackle. Me, too.”

“Bajia,” said the Autumn Court noble. “Ten.”

“Skada. Two,” Said the Winter Court male.

“You all know my name by now. Kealah, officially here for twelve,” said Kealah, and grinned rakishly. “He won’t actually make me stay that long, though. He just likes to make a point.”

“Azriel. Five. I’m with him.” Az gestured to Cas with one hand and Cas felt  surprising warmth as the ease with which Azriel simply… admitted it, out loud. He asked himself the same question he’d asked out loud in the courtyard while they waited:  _ what are we to each other? _

“Paivan and Valo. Four,” said two identical male Day Court High Fae, their voices ringing in unison.

“Elder. Six,” said the Spring Court fae who cared so much about roses.

“Damian. Two,” said a Summer Court male.

There was a long pause, and finally, the last one - a Dawn Court male, with their delicately drawn beauty and dusky skin - spoke. “My name is Ausro. I am here for five years, too.” He shrugged. “I spent years in the dissident tunnels Under the Mountain. I was ransomed out, but I still had the need to steal. Eventually I got caught thieving from the people who bought my freedom. So here I am.”

Cas nodded, slowly. “I’ll remember your names, all of you. We made it here,” He said in his general’s voice, putting all the force and weight of his time in command. “And that counts for something. I hope to the Mother all of you survive your exile, and become better fae in the meantime.”

Kealah snorted. “I literally could not be more perfect than I am right now,” She announced. “I am the best of all of us and I think we all know it.”

Azriel looked at her steadily for a long moment and then said, “I suppose we don’t have to miss Rhys, after all.”

“Use your coin wisely,” Cas said. “Hide how much you have, if you’re smart. And try not to kill each other. If I can, I’ll help you if you need it, all of you. I don’t take for granted what it means to survive someone trying to kill me.” He looked at Azriel, who smiled faintly at him, then to Kealah. “Well? Where are these authorities we’re supposed to report to?”

“You don’t  _ have _ to,” Ausro said. “You could just leave. I’d go with you into the hills, I wouldn’t mind sticking with a couple of hardened soldiers like you two... you don’t have to report.”

“Honestly, you’re better off if you don’t,” Bajia added.

“Best if they never know whether you landed or not,” Said Crackle. “You’ll be free, if they don’t know where you are.” 

“ _ They _ kicked  _ us  _ out,” Bajia continued. “Why report to them? Why even give them the satisfaction of knowledge? I intend to  _ surprise _ Eris when I return.”

“I’m never going back,” One of the Day twins said. “Once I finish exile I’ll go find a place in the continent and stay there. I heard a rumor there’s a mortal kingdom taking in stray fae if you prove someone’s done you wrong and you can provide a service. Supposedly it's to pay back fae that did them a service. You have to sign up for ten years’ labor, but then you get to live there as a free fae. What  _ I  _ heard is they’ve got some new queen they call a god with white eyes… like yours were back there. That she's got some weird mortal magic."

"Mortals don't have magic," Elder snorted.

"These mortals do," Valo said with a careless shrug.

Cas and Az shared an uneasy look.  _ It couldn’t be.  _ After a second, he cleared his throat. “I need to report,” Cas said with a shrug. “I want Rhys to know we’re alive.”

Kealah linked her arms through his and Az’s, and smiled as she began to half-push, half-lead them up the sandy hill. “Then it looks like it’s us three together!”

“Great,” Cas said heavily, but he could see Azriel was still smiling.

* * *

The port town of Lawless, which Kealah helpfully informed them was the only safe place to stay, was called Insurgent. To Azriel this seemed like someone’s old bad joke that had been taken too seriously and had a life of its own now, but Kealah didn’t seem to see the humor in it.

Kealah seemed to know where she was going, which was great, since Azriel couldn’t tell one rickety curving uphill alleyway that passed for a street from another. The buildings seemed to be made of a variety of things; bricks magicked together from sand and seawater, planks of wood he suspected were stolen from ships, dirt, just anything that they could stack together to build a shelter. Some of them had signs out front, written in a variety of languages mortal and fae. 

Azriel noted one sign that was easy enough to read, just an image of a stein full of beer resting atop a bed, in blue paint. That might be a good place to start, once they’d reported, to try and figure out what to do next. 

They were watched, too. Not actively, not by anyone who seemed hostile, but curious stares followed them as they made their way behind Kealah. Fae poked their heads out of doors and windows, whispered behind their hands. At first he wondered if Cas had  _ already  _ been recognized, if his only bit of optimism about this had been misplaced, but then it occurred to Azriel that Cas never sentenced Illyrians to Lawless - they meted out their own justice. It was probably the first time many of the fae here had ever  _ seen _ Illyrian warriors. 

He tried to keep his head high, his aching back muscles forcing his bad wing up where it should be to keep it from dragging on the ground. After flying so far, he could barely stand the pain, but Azriel knew his stubbornness was stronger than his nerve-endings and simply gritted his teeth. Cassian walked beside him, and occasionally their fingers just lightly brushed against each other as if by accident.

They were here, and alive, and he wasn’t locked in. Things could be worse.

They climbed the steep, hilly little town, heading for the larger building at the very top. It was better made than all the rest, carefully built from imported true bricks, with a well-made roof constructed to withstand the storms that blew in off the sea.

With a clear view of the ocean and the docks, plenty of windows, and a distinct aura of magic everywhere around it, it was the most Prythian thing Az had seen so far. 

“It would have been easier to walk up to the House of Wind,” Cas muttered next to him as they walked. “We could have flown, you know, we’d be there by now.”

“No,” Az said calmly, trying to keep his voice expressionless, although he could tell it had gone a bit tight with pain. “I could not have flown. That would not be a good idea right this minute.”

“Oh, right,” Cas said, his face reddening just slightly. He looked sidelong at Az with a concern on his face that Ariel hated and wanted to drown himself in, in equal measure. “How bad is it?”

“I’d really prefer if you didn’t ask, so I don’t have to lie.”

Kealah gestured to the door, giving Cas and Az a low bow, laughing at the identical half-disgusted faces they made. “My Illyrian lords,” She said brightly, “May I present… the authorities.”

Cas rolled his eyes and moved past her, opening the door without knocking and walking right in. Azriel followed him, Kealah on his heels. For a moment, he could have sworn he felt her eyes on his back, on his left wing, but when he turned around she was looking around the room and not at him at all.

This was one wide room, with a large desk set in the middle of it and a ring of smaller desks lining the walls. There was only one fae male in here right now, a large, obviously-military male sitting at the biggest desk. He didn’t fit with it and Cas had the impression of a grown man trying to sit at a child’s table. He didn’t look up when they came in, buried in a stack of paperwork that was nearly taller than him. The air in here was muggy, a little oppressive, and a cracked window facing the ocean did nearly nothing to let in the breeze. “Can I help you?” He asked in a bored voice.

“Right, so ‘the authorities’ is really just…  _ one _ authority. Look alive, Ty, you’ve got new reports,” Kealah said cheerfully, ducking out from behind Az and Cas and moving to stand in front of them. 

The male’s head snapped up in surprise and he knocked over a pile of papers with elbow, sending them crashing to the ground in a pile. “Damn! I… Kealah? What are  _ you  _ doing here? Don’t you have some mortal children to frighten by riding a broom?”

****

Kealah gave a lazy salute, still grinning. “Nice, Ty. Real nice. Reporting. I’m a prisoner now.” She showed the male the tattoo on the inside of her wrist, the elegantly scripted L and 12 curling together.

****

The guard sat back and whistled, long and low. “Damn, Kealah. I saw the name on the manifest when it came here but I didn’t know  _ you  _ were the Kealah. What did you  _ do  _ to Tarq _? _ ”

“He knows you?” Cas asked, surprise in his voice.

“Everyone knows me,” Kealah shrugged. “I make it a point, in my life, to know as many people as possible who I can manipulate into helping me get what I want. I’m so damn honest about it that it’s charming, really.”

“No, it’s not,” Ty said dryly.

“Ty drew the short straw about three hundred years ago when I used to just be a foot soldier, before they put me in the naval brigade, and he’s been stuck knowing me ever since. Besides, it’s not polite to ask a lady such questions, Ty. I’m here to report. Send back to Tarquin that I made it in one piece, more or less, but his pretty prison ship is toast and all those nice sailors who never let us up above decks for fresh air are dead, too.”

“Kealah, you didn’t, Ty said. Az frowned, wondering why he didn’t seem surprised. As though the idea of Kealah destroying a ship and killing everyone on board was something he’d been expecting or was at least resigned to.

“I didn’t,” She confirmed. “Pirates did. Or something that tried to look like pirates, anyway. I’ve brought two others to report with me.”

“I’m Cassian,” Cas said. 

“Azriel.” Az was looking around the small room as he said it, letting his shadows do some looking of their own, keeping them subtle and less noticeable than they usually were. Shadowsingers weren’t exactly rare but they weren’t common either, and what he could do might be in high demand in a place full of criminals. It’d be better to keep it a secret as long as he could. 

“Illyrians. I was told to expect you on the  _ Risen Tide,  _ if I recall correctly…” Ty leaned over, so gigantically tall he was able to reach the floor without ever leaving his seat, and pushed around the spilled papers, searching. Eventually he found what he was looking for and pulled it up, frowning at the list written on it. “There are other names on the manifest. What happened to the other prisoners?”

“Dead,” Cas said quickly. Kealah looked sidelong at him, but did not correct him. “We were the only survivors of the attack.”

“You didn’t try and save anyone else, Kealah?” Ty raised an eyebrow.

“No,” Kealah shrugged again. “Little busy saving myself, Ty.”

“That’s just like you. Selfish to the end, eh, Kealah?”

Kealah grinned. “Selfish to the end, that’s my family motto!”

“You haven’t had a family since the war, but fair enough. Couldn’t ask for anything more than that. I’ll send word you three made it. Kealah, you know the rules well enough, you’ve been the one to give the damn speech before often enough. You other two…” Ty turned and looked them full in the face, and Azriel noted the weariness in him. He wasn’t any older than Rhys, if that, and this couldn’t be much of a plum assignment. 

This was where you sent a soldier you didn’t want with the regular armies. He was as much an exile here as anyone else, Az thought, but he hadn’t committed any crime and looked infinitely bitter about it. “This is Lawless. In Insurgent, you follow basic laws- you don’t steal, you don’t kill, you don’t rape. You get the drift. Basically don’t cause physical or direct financial or material harm to any other person here and you’ll be fine with the law. If you get yourself killed, we’re not going to bother caring about it beyond being pissed off we have to clean up the blood. My job is to make sure we have an accurate count of you bastards when you arrive, and I do not give a damn what happens to you after. Understood?”

Cas and Az nodded, slowly, both of them instinctively adopting the clasped-hands-behind-straight-back posture of military men. Kealah wandered off to a corner of the room, pouring herself a drink of water from a clear pitcher.

“Who is ‘we’?” Cas asked, a little curiously. “We’ve only seen you.”

“There are others. There’s a barracks, down by the sand. I stay up here.” A strange look came over Ty’s face, and he looked away from them. “It’s just easier for me. Most fae try to stay in town for a while, and I don’t blame ‘em,” Ty continued, watching Kealah with narrowed eyes as she simply wandered around the room, drinking from Ty’s cup and touching everything for no apparent reason. “Sooner or later I imagine you’ll head off, though, since there’s not much here for anyone who hasn’t already set themselves up. Don’t wait ‘til you’re out of money or you won’t like what you have to do to get more. I suggest, gentlemen, that you buy yourselves some blades, first. Once you leave Insurgent, there are no laws beyond whatever the local asshole in charge chooses to enforce. Your fate is your own and we’ll have nothing to do with you until your time is up. If you survive your exile, you report back here to go home.”

“How will we know?” Azriel asked, keeping his voice low and respectful.

“Know what?”

“How will we know if our time has ended? There aren’t… a lot of calendars here, it doesn’t seem.”

Ty smiled, and Az saw a brief flash of a metal false tooth. “Your mark will fade, in the week before your exile ends. When it is gone completely, you may report here to be put on the next ship home.” He looked Azriel over. “Your wings both work?”

“Yes,” Azriel said defensively, realizing his left wing had started dragging the floor again. Fighting the pain, he lifted it back up in the air. “I can fly.”

“Good,” Ty said firmly. “I suggest you go further into the hills and stay there. It’s safer in the hills, for your kind.”

“Our… kind? There are other Illyrians here?” Cas looked worried rather than happy about that, and Azriel wanted to remind him that it didn’t matter, none of it mattered, they could be together in public even if Illyrians might see… but he didn’t quite believe that himself.

“No, not that I know of,” Ty shrugged. “I didn’t mean Illyrians. I meant… well.” He frowned down at his desk. “Military. Law men. You know. Fae like you.”

“Hey, we’re not-”

“I can tell a military fae a mile away, so don’t bother to lie to me. There’s a town of former lawmen up in the hills, run by a High Fae that got himself kicked out of the Spring Court during the War for aiding mortals. The old High Lord back then never even gave him a release date and it seems like the new one never even knew he existed. He’s stuck here ‘til he drops and he’s made a good place for himself, surviving the centuries since. Empires have lived less time than he has. Ask for Rhomulus. But keep in mind he’s a bitter old ass.”

“Right,” Azriel said, thoughtfully. “Anything else we should know?”

“Stay away from Kealah,” Ty said, shooting her a dark look as she poured herself another glass of his water. “She’s trouble on two legs.”

“At least I still  _ have _ both my legs,” Kealah replied with false sweetness. Ty colored red with anger, and Azriel looked back at him, at his hulking form behind the desk, a man clearly more used to battlefield than paperwork, and understood suddenly why he stayed in this building.

“Yeah, well, just call me the visible evidence of a High Lord’s fuckups,” Ty muttered, aggressively signing a form so hard Az could hear it scratching into the wood of the desk underneath.

“Were you involved in Nostrus’s rebellion?” Azriel asked, trying to sound casual.

Ty gave him a level stare. “Bet your ass I was. Thought he had a chance, too. Ended up in Amarantha’s prisons with the rest of the rebels, lost a leg to an infection after a fight. Why the fuck do you think I’m here? I’d be dead if I weren’t cousin to Tarquin’s mother. He ransomed me out of the tunnels once I healed up a bit but he sure as hell didn’t want me around reminding anyone that rebellions against Amarantha didn’t work.” He snorted, but some of his bad humor lifted. “Til the last one, I guess. Hey, I heard the Night Lord ripped her heart out with his bare hands. Is that true?”

“He had a knife.” Azriel smiled thinly. “But yes.” 

“What was it like?” Ty’s eyes lit with interest. “Did you see it happen?”

“We were busy with other things at the time,” Cas said without even a flicker of his eyelids. Azriel thought of the agony in his back, Cas’s warm skin as he’d buried his face into the crook of his neck.  _ I love you so much, I’ve loved you so much, I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you. _

All he’d known in that moment had been the agony and the arms around him.

“Pity. That had to be a sight to see. In any case, welcome to what happens when you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time in the Summer Court.”

Az did not look at Cas, did not give anything away, but thought of Kealah’s casual ease and disdain in this office, Ty’s obvious familiarity with her. Both Summer Court High Fae, both personally knew Tarquin, both here because of him. One behind a desk, one locked in a prison cell on a ship.

He was missing something here, a connection. They were puzzle pieces with the same design that did not quite fit together.

“I know what you are, the both of you,” Ty continued, “I even sympathize with your situation. That’s the thing about being lesser fae or I guess in my case just not part of the ruling arseholes, isn’t it? We don’t get to make our own choices, but we get blamed when theirs go poorly. I won’t help you escape, and if you try it on your own, you’ll face me and my soldiers. I’m a hard male to kill and I expect you’d be surprised at what happens if you try, peg-legged or not.”

“Insurgent has laws,” Cas said, his voice completely even and emotionless. “We’ll keep to them at least until we’re out of town. You’ll see no trouble from Az or I.”

“Good. That’s what I like to hear. I can’t exactly go for much of a hike these days, so don’t expect me to pop up anywhere unexpected. You’re dismissed.” He looked over at Kealah, narrowing his eyes. “That means  _ all of you _ get out of my office.”

Cas and Az both inclined their heads in something that wasn’t quite a bow, but was a bit more than a nod, and left. Kealah gave Ty a lazy, mocking salute and was right on their heels, still smiling to herself, humming faintly.

She pushed past them and caught Cas’s eyes with a slightly deeper smile. “Well?”

“Well what?” Cas asked, blinking at her. If Azriel had been anyone else, he might have had to stifle a laugh.

“Aren’t you gonna buy me that drink?”

They ended up back at the building with the beer stein painted on the sign out front. For all that it was barely late afternoon, the bar was packed, and Cas had to intimidate a small group of fae to free up some space for them to sit.

Kealah had ordered three full steins of beer, all at once, just for herself. Cas had ordered three fingers of something amber-colored.

Azriel had simply asked them to hand over the whole damn bottle, and another one besides.

The chairs weren’t made for fae with wings and it was hard to get comfortable, but eventually Azriel had found a bench and sort of laid his bad wing on it, letting the wood hold its weight and giving his shoulder, which throbbed by now in time with his heartbeat, a welcome break. Before he could stop himself, he let out a soft sigh of relief. Cas sat down next to him, curling his own wings tightly against his back.

He could feel Cas’s questioning eyes on him as he rearranged himself and pointedly did not look at him.  _ I am not weak. I am not broken. Do not treat me like I am. _

Once it was paid for, the three of them sat in silence for a while. Kealah drank a whole stein more quickly than Azriel would have expected, and he had to remind himself that she was a sailor, and sailors knew how to hold alcohol. Cas finished his drink and began eyeballing Azriel’s bottles with obvious hunger.

“Well…” Cas started, and then fell silent again, pouring himself a second drink from Azriel’s bottle. “What do we do now?”

“Get up in the hills, if Ty is right,” Azriel said thoughtfully. “Buy weapons, first. Guess we’ll just wave goodbye to our armor and Siphons until we get out of here.” He shifted, uneasily. Childhood exercises or not, an Illyrian with no Siphon was liable to burn down buildings if he got angry. Rhys’s mother had told them a story, once, about an Illyrian who used three being separated from them, witnessing his mate’s death, and unmaking a forest full of soldiers and himself in a 300-foot-radius, leaving only bloody puddles, the occasional burned-out stump, and broken bark behind. Nothing had ever grown again in that spot and supposedly you could still find the outline of the Illyrian’s body on the ground in the K'rai Pass if you knew where to look.

On the ship, Cas’s eyes had gone white, unfae, the magic had ripped out of him as though it were a living beast finally let free from a prison. He’d poured blood from his eyes and his fingernails and from more cuts than Azriel could count - and those cuts had been gone, not just healed but  _ gone as though they had never existed,  _ within an hour of their attempt to reach shore. 

_ What is Illyrian power made of? _

“I’ll be heading out of town myself,” Kealah said thoughtfully, sipping the second beer now that the first had been finished. “I have some old friends I’ve been meaning to get in touch with ever since they burned down the bank.”

“They  _ what? _ ” Az and Cas said in unison.

She laughed at the looks on their faces. “Kidding! Just wanted to see what you’d say. They’re actually here for trying to steal a really important book from Nostrus on behalf of Hybern. Obviously they failed. There were six originally, and two of them drowned because they were dumbasses who didn’t guess that Tarq’s family would  _ guard their precious heirlooms because he’s naive and optimistic, not a moron.  _ The other four of them have been here ever since. And they’re not so much friends as people I need to inflict violence upon.”

“Why?”   


“Because that would have really hurt Tarq’s ascension to High Lord, if the Book of Breathings was missing,” Kealah said, frowning.

“... but aren’t you mad at him?” Azriel asked, confused.

“No I’m not  _ mad at him.  _ Or… a little, maybe. But he’s still my High Lord. I’ve known him a long time, and if anyone’s going to undermine him, it’s going to be  _ me _ , not some dumbasses with a death wish.”

“You did say you’d tell me what you did to get exiled once I bought you a drink,” Cas pointed out. Under the table, with their wings ensuring it went unseen by the larger crowd, Az felt Cas’s fingers curl around his own, squeeze hard once, and then hold on. Azriel smiled, a barely-there expression, at the warmth and Cas’s rough, calloused hands against his scars, and squeezed back.

_ Mother’s luck, we lived. Amarantha tried to tear my wing out and turn you into a pet and we lived. The Night Court wanted you dead and we lived. Someone tried to sink our ship and we lived.  _ Next to him, Cas was relaxing into his usual easy smile, his hair half-waved from the salt from the ocean and the wind. Azriel’s mouth went slightly dry and he shifted in his seat. 

_ Next time I get you alone,  _ he thought, looking down at Cas’s fingers wrapped around his own, _ I’m going to take you in the bed so hard you can barely walk for days. I wish I had the courage to kiss you right here in front of them all. _

“Fair enough. A good fae keeps the promises they make to their own kind, as they say.” She looked over Cas’s dark wings, his black hair and hazel eyes, his curved ears. “Or, well, as close to their own kind as you two are to mine. I’m in exile because I tried to lead a rebellion against Tarquin.”

“What? Who would rebel against  _ Tarquin?  _ You said he was your friend.”

“I didn’t say that.” Kealah rolled her eyes. “I said I was his First, and I was, for twenty years. Then he gets to be High Lord when Amarantha kills Nostrus for  _ his  _ idiocy, and the first thing Tarquin does is start telling everyone who will sit still and listen about how he wants  _ equality between the High and lesser fae.  _ It was nonsense to begin with, but it was also Tarquin mucking up his chance to build solid leadership for a Court that badly needed it. He’s never understood the value of waiting until the ground is sound beneath your feet.”

“You don’t like lesser fae?” Az asked, tilting his head, feeling a bit of hair fall into his eyes. It felt crusted with salt and almost cracked when he touched it. “But you’re sitting here with us.”

“I like lesser fae just fine,” Kealah said, sitting back in her own seat, looking at the two of them with a serious expression for the first time in hours. “In any other situation I wouldn’t stand between Tarq and his notions. Bring on equality, I say - we High Fae have probably earned the way we’d be treated if we allowed it, especially the courts that fought to retain slavery in the war. I rebelled because the High Fae in the Summer Court wouldn’t stand for it. He needed to  _ wait,  _ and he wouldn’t  _ listen. _ ”

“... how would a rebellion teach him anything?” Cas asked, blankly.

“It taught  _ him  _ to stop being such a public moron and to keep that sort of thing in private and at least get Varian and the armies on his side first… and it taught those who spoke out against him not to speak too openly. Putting me down, and imprisoning all my  _ accomplices, _ made him look stronger,” Kealah said softly. Her smile was warmer this time, unguarded. “He’s a good fae, Tarquin, and he needed to look strong to maintain his position. I was close to retirement anyway. There were a lot of fae looking to get him put out of lordship, and he’s strong, but Cresseida’s been building support to remove him-”

“ _ Cresseida? _ ”

Kealah waved one hand dismissively. “She puts on a good act and I’m sure she really does care about him, but she’s got ambitions and ideas of her own. I’ll tell you a secret about her - she’s next in line.”

“Next in line?” Azriel blinked, confused. “But she’s-”

“She’s  _ female _ ,” Cas said blankly. “The last High Lady was a thousand years ago… that doesn’t happen anymore. They stopped being chosen.”

“No one knows why,” Azriel said thoughtfully, as something clicked into place. “They thought it was a curse from the Cauldron, in the old history books Amren reads, they thought…”

“But the Cauldron’s been making some new choices, hasn’t it?” Kealah grinned, and Cas realized she had a silver crown over one molar. 

“The Cauldron doesn’t choose things,” Cas frowned, tightening his grip on the cool glass he still held in one hand. “Amarantha-”

“You really think Amarantha had the power to take two blood-enemy High Lords and turn them into loving mates through the sheer power of keeping them both between her legs?” Kealah rolled her eyes, ignoring the way the two Illyrians bristled and glared. “She sure as hell didn’t do that without help from a higher power. That’s the Cauldron setting something up, is what that is. Two High Lords have  _ never ever been mates before. It has literally never happened once in history.” _

“Not that anyone wrote down in a history book,” Azriel said with a ghost of a smile.

“Clearly, anything’s possible these days. Look, Cresseida wouldn’t have hurt him, not really, but… High Lords  _ can  _ abdicate, and I think Tarquin might even abdicate for her, if only to go down in history as a male High Lord who believed so much in equality that he’d hand his position over to a female. Or he would abdicate, if she weren’t totally against his whole lesser fae-High Fae thing.”

“High Lords can abdicate?” Azriel had never even heard of such a thing.

“Sure they can. Hurts like hell, or so I’m told, but they  _ can.  _ Ask Varian next time you see him, he knows all about it and he’s been trying to quietly undermine her. Varian sympathizes with Tarq’s thing about lesser fae, and Cresseida… well. She likes the hierarchy right where it is.” Kealah looked the two of them up and down. “Hey, is it true that you were the one the mad queen chained up like a dog to her throne?”

Cas gritted his teeth and looked away. “Yes.”

“Did she ever… you know… let ‘em…?" Kealah waggled her fingers in a vague gesture that nonetheless made Cas scowl. "I heard she let the Hybernians visit you in your prison cell for fun-”

Cas knocked back the rest of his drink, eyes glittering. “Look, I-”

“That’s a question that goes too far, Kealah.” The deadly quiet of Azriel’s voice cut through the noise of the room. “I suggest you reword it or you’ll regret it.” His hands itched to draw a blade and he had to remind himself he didn’t have one any longer.

“Fine. Can’t blame a girl for being curious, can you?”

“You’ll find I can. I have. And I will keep doing so. Keep your gossip about baseless rumors to yourself.”

“I can defend myself, Az,” Cas said in warning, but his face was burning red with embarrassment and, Azriel thought, shame. It would have been nice to be mates, if only so that he could have asked Cas if those rumors were  _ true  _ and that was why his face was so red, without having to think about whether Kealah could hear him. “And… not exactly, no, that’s… she didn’t tell them to do that.”

Azriel blinked.  _ That’s doesn't answer the question of whether or not they did, Cas. _

“Fair enough. In any case… that’s why I’m here. Varian needed someone to start a revolution, someone who was smart enough to make it look real but knew how to ensure it failed.” She closed her eyes, tipping her head back against the wall as she sipped her beer again. “Just call me Fearless Leader.”

Azriel felt the pleasant buzz from the liquor, glad he’d ordered the bottle, as he was nearly halfway through it and it took the edge off his anger at her asking about Cas’s past. “A fake rebellion,” He said thoughtfully. “And you got twelve years for that?”

“I told you Tarquin won’t make me stay for the whole time,” Kealah grinned without moving or looking at them. “I’ll go back early, hide out until my ‘time’ is up, and reappear like I’ve just returned from exile with a renewed commitment and loyalty to my lord.”

“So maybe whoever took our ship down knew what you did,” Azriel said thoughtfully. “And their target wasn’t Cas and I at all, but you… Fearless Leader.”

The shadows whispered to him from their place at his feet, and Azriel tried to listen. They were harder to hear down there, but less noticeable. His eyes narrowed. They knew something was off about this story, and he did, too, but he didn’t know enough yet to question it.

“Let’s get a room here tonight, Cas,” Azriel said softly, leaning over to speak directly into his ear. The bar around them was loud, and he had the feeling it would be infinitely louder at night when the rest of the fae living in this city trickled back in from whatever it was they did all day. Loud meant no noise would carry. In a place like this, enough noise meant actual privacy for he and Cas. “Before we head up for the hills tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Cas replied with an easy shrug, his grip on Azriel’s going slack, before fingers drifted over the top of Azriel’s right thigh, his palm resting there, a thumb lazily circling a little higher on Az’s leg than was altogether decent. Az closed his eyes, briefly, and fought a smile.  _ That touch gets any higher on my leg and he’s going to either regret it or I’ll make him beg for more.  _ “I’ll get that, if you buy the blades tomorrow.”

“Can I stay with you?” Kealah asked, her sea-green eyes open again. “Can I? I’ll sleep on the floor. Or… are you getting a room to sleep, or to…  _ get a room? _ ” She sat up quickly and leaned forward, looking right into Cas’s eyes, with a childlike eagerness. 

“That’s a rude question to ask someone you only spoke to for the first time today,” Cas snapped at her, his face red again. 

“Prude,” Kealah said sweetly, draining the rest of the second beer and beginning on the third. “Illyrians are such damn  _ prudes. _ Why couldn’t I have gotten stuck with males from the Day Court?  _ They  _ know how to show a girl a good time. At least you’re pretty.”

“I have known Cassian for five hundred years and more,” Azriel said in his usual emotionless voice, without looking up. “I don’t think I have ever heard anyone consider him  _ pretty. _ ”

Cas snorted, his hand moving from Az’s leg to pour himself another glass from Azriel’s bottle. Azriel reached out and took the whole thing away, shooting Cas what passed for a glare from him.

Kealah drank the rest of her beer, slammed the final empty stein down on the table, and pushed herself standing. “Well, Illyrians, I’ll see you when I see you. Thanks for breaking the ship for me.”

“No problem,” Cas muttered, rubbing one wrist with his other hand. “Anytime.”

“I’ll take you up on that.” Kealah headed for the door. “There are an awful lot of ships in this world that need busting up, and you looked like you enjoyed yourself.”

“I’m pretty sure I looked the opposite of that,” Cas replied. He didn’t watch her go, but Azriel did, still trying to piece together the part of the puzzle he was missing. As she opened up the door to leave, she turned back to hold up one arm.

Kealah winked at Azriel when she saw he was looking, held up the inside of her wrist, and pressed her finger to the tattoo, 12 and L entwined together. 

She murmured something, dragged her fingernail across it, and the tattoo binding her to Lawless disappeared. She put a finger up to her lips and mouthed,  _ I walk in the shadows, too.  _ Then she was gone.

Azriel stared as she headed out the door, bottle forgotten in his hand, only belatedly thinking to send a shadow after her. Cassian looked up and saw the look on his face, glancing at the already-closed door and then back at him. “What?”

“I’m going to guess,” Az said slowly, as his mind worked to put the puzzle pieces together, “that Kealah isn’t a prisoner because she led a fake rebellion.”

“You think that whole thing was a story? That she’s a prisoner because of something else?”

“I don’t think Kealah is Tarquin’s prisoner at all. She’s not being  _ punished _ … she’s on a mission. I think he sent her here because she’s Tarquin’s fucking  _ spymaster _ .” 

* * *

In the corner of the room, another fae watched them carefully, catching every movement. He was a bit too far away to hear them in a crowded place like this, but body language gave away far more than words ever did, in his experience. They were wary of the female, and she was enjoying herself with them. Honestly, they probably should be wary of her… she was entirely too friendly. 

You couldn’t trust a friendly High Fae, could you? Not really. They always had an ulterior motive.

From where he sat, he could just barely see the two Illyrians clasp hands underneath the table, before someone moved in front of him and wrecked the view. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t see it any longer. He’d already known, after all, but their attempt to hide it gave him useful information, as did the sight of the shadows pooling around the shorter one’s feet. 

Azriel. He’d said his name was Azriel, and the shadows he’d all but buried himself in before, he was trying to hide now. And the other one was Cassian - where Azriel seemed subtle and hard to read, Cassian never bothered to hide anything.

That was a soldier for you - career military always thought they could fight their way out of anything. That’d be his weakness, then - that and the other male’s injured wing.

He kept his eyes on them, slowly lifting a bottle to his mouth and putting it down again, mechanically, never even looking to see how much was left. He wasn’t the only fae here who sat in silence drinking alone, and no one noticed.

They might have recognized him, the two of them, if he hadn’t glamoured himself to look different than he had back in the brig. They’d see only another average-looking lesser fae if they looked his way, nothing to give a second glance to. The female - Kealah - got up and left, and while he couldn’t see her leave, he could see the look of unguarded surprise that crossed Azriel’s face before he caught himself and it went empty again.

What had he seen? The fae narrowed his eyes, looking back and forth, but the Summer Court fae was already gone. 

It didn’t matter. She wasn’t important. He wasn’t here to watch  _ her,  _ after all. 

 It took another half an hour or so before the two Illyrians stood and bought a room for a week. The fae watching them narrowed his eyes, beginning to smile. A week would give him plenty of time to make sure they were intercepted. 

When they went up the stairs, he watched the fingertips of the tall one brush the shorter male’s wings, watched the thrill of it run visibly up Azriel’s back. He turned back, said something. They laughed, their eyes sparkling for each other, as they disappeared the rest of the way up the stairs.

Well, the more comfortable they felt here, the more they’d let their guards down. It might take him a while to bribe all the relevant guards to look the other way, starting with the peg-leg up in the administration building and working his way on down to the guard that even now stood right under a faelight on a corner keeping watch. Might take most of a week. He had the time, after all.

The fae slowly stood, once they had gone up to their room, and walked over to the bar. The owner stood behind it, acting as bartender tonight, and stared at him blankly until he dropped the glamor. Recognition lit his eyes and he grinned widely.

“You’re back! Haven’t seen you in months. We thought you were dead. I would have collected on that bet in three days or so.”

“Gyerin, you need to learn to stop placing bets on when I’ll die. You’re just going to keep losing. I’ve been working in Prythian, pulling some strings. Damn good at my job, too. Honestly, they should really pay me more.”

“Considering how you  _ started  _ working for them, you should probably be glad you’re paid at all.”

“I don’t like to think about that.” He dropped a handful of the coins the Illyrian general had given him onto the countertop. “What matters is that I took a bad situation and turned it into a good one. Besides, I’ve been promoted since then. The bats. What room did they get?”

The bartender looked down at the coins, then back up at him. “The Illyrians? Are they next on your list?” Gyerin grinned, greed sparkling in his eyes. “Oh, you can do better than that paltry sum. I know we’ve been friends a long time, but this is just  _ insulting. _ ”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He dropped another three coins and was rewarded with the bartender’s smile softening into affection - for the coins, if not for him. 

“Better. Room at the end of the hall. The extra one we built. Want a key? Or just to know where the removable knot in the wall is so you can watch?”

He raised an eyebrow. “What kind of place you running these days, Gyerin? Besides, I know where the removable knot is.”

“The kind of place that makes money from hard off saps like you. You want to watch a couple of Night Court bats have at it, I’m not here to judge. Now, me, I’m sweet on the madam at the brothel down the road.”

“That female’s been dragging you around since before I left. I think she just sees coins in your eyes when she looks at you.”

“Eh, sometimes money leads to love. We’ll see which of us ends up happier in the end. Once I get enough money saved up I intend to  _ marry _ that female, and she intends to say yes. I’ll get you a key made in two days, but it’ll cost you five more coins.”

He gave Gyerin the money - he always kept his end of the bargain, he knew Gyerin could be trusted. There was something funny about handing over the money the Illyrian had so selflessly given him in order to bribe someone to look the other way while he did this.

Then he smirked and made his way out the door. Out in the street, he took a deep breath of the air, smelling the salt of the ocean and the never-ending smell of someone cooking. There were people in the streets, High and lesser fae, already drunk this early in the night and only intending to get drunker.

Insurgent wasn’t dangerous, as far as lawless cities in lawless lands went. There were guards, here and there, who occasionally stepped in. But he still shouldn’t linger too long, a fae who had enough money to bribe a bartender and might have been spotted throwing that money around. 

He’d have to get them out of town before he could make the proper introductions. They’d fight, though. People who are being abducted usually did… and these two were proper fighters, not the criminal rabble he usually had to work with.

He grinned to himself. Well. It couldn’t be any worse than the fights down in the dissident tunnels.

He began walking, putting his glamour back on, ignored by those around him. He took twists and turns, down this alley or that. Eventually, he became aware someone was following him. He took another few turns, until he was certain that the fae following him was who he had hoped it would be.

“Volgen,” He said finally. “I’ve got good news for him.” He didn’t turn around, only looked over his shoulder.

 Above Insurgent, a million stars began to come to life as the sun set. He hoped the spirits up there in the stars enjoyed things these days. The show was about to get a lot more interesting once they had the bats in hand.

“Yeah?” The other fae’s voice was a harsh rasp, something not quite a whisper but not quite regular speech, either. “Glad to see you made it. We thought you might have gone down. Sorry about that; we couldn’t go down to get you out. Only me and boss made it onto the ship. Rules are rules. Orders are-.”

“Orders. I know, Volgen. It’s fine,” He said with a shrug. “I got to see what those Illyrians can really do, in any case, and... I know we expected them to break themselves out of the cells long before we made it here, but what I saw was… better.”

“So? What do you think? Is it them?”

He laughed and held out his hand. “Give me my payment from your boss, first. We’re going to have to pay a lot of bribes this week.” The other fae watched him for a moment, then handed over small sack of gold coins that he slipped with only the slightest clinking into a pocket. 

“So?” Volgen rasped again. “Is it them? Do you think they can do it?”

“I think he’s right. They’re _ it.  _ I’ve seen what they can do if they’re pushed far enough. They’re exactly what we’ve been waiting for.”

“So? What’s the plan? Should we go get ‘em now?”

“Give them a bit. I want them to let their guard down a bit first. They’ve bought a room for a week and Gyerin’s going to get me a key.”

“Good old Gyerin. How many has he sold to us so far?”

“Ten or twelve fighters, by my count. That’s just since I started working for us… and that doesn’t actually count  _ me.  _ Do I count myself as thirteen?”

“I remember. You spat in the boss’s face, when you woke up, fought like a wild thing.”

“Sure did.” He smiled, a little dreamily, at the memory. “I came around, though.”

“Everyone always does. Besides, you’re higher up than he is, now."

"I was born higher up. Just took some time for everyone to admit it."

"Gyerin give you a time frame on getting that key?”

“Two days, give or take. But I say we give the Illyrians the week. Gyerin will make sure we get what we want, and you know he’ll happily take a bonus to help us get them.”

“When the Cauldron was handing out hearts, Gyerin was surely skipped.”

“I’d say, rather, that the Cauldron only gave him a heart for whores. Show Gyerin a whore with a heart of gold, or a sick little sister, or a baby… he’ll give ‘em the shirt off his back and then some. When it comes to upstanding lawmen with a reputation for  _ sacrificing themselves to do the right thing _ , however…  _ those _ smug bastards he’s willing to sell for the right price. Turns out, we’re paying it. Let them start to feel safe. We’ll let your boss know, and we’ll get ready. They’re  _ it.  _ I’m sure of it.”

“How do you suggest we take them out?”

He thought of Cassian refusing to look the Peregryn in the eye when the food came, flinching every time a sailor came stomping down from the decks above, polite as a mortal begging for coin. He’d been in prison before, the fae thought, and hadn’t liked it one bit.

“I have an idea. They’re not going to like it. Neither will you, I imagine - it won’t be a fair fight.”

The other fae stayed hidden in the shadows, and rasped, “I rarely like your ideas. Working for the Court turned you into an absolute bastard.” There was a smile in that harshly whispered voice, though, that gave the lie to his words.

“I was a bastard before. The Court just rewarded me for being good at it. Let’s go tell your boss about my idea and see what  _ he  _ thinks.”

The two males walked, companionably, into the night. Somewhere behind him, he thought, the Illyrians were probably already in bed with each other.

He hoped they made the most of this week. He fingered one of the gold coins in his pocket, turning it over and over in his hand. They’d been sweet, really, down in the brig, trying to take care of each other. He almost felt bad for this, they seemed like genuinely nice fae. 

They’d been expected to free themselves or fight their way out, kill a not-insignificant amount of sailors to do it. The plan had been to intercept them during that escape attempt… instead they’d gone meek and quiet and frightened behind bars. He wondered if that would hold up somewhere other than a ship.

He supposed they were about to find out.


	9. The First Assassination Attempt

The first assassination attempt came a month or so after Cas and Az had been shipped away. Based on the estimate Rhys had received from the ship’s first mate, an odd sort of Summer Court male that Tamlin had glowered at as though he were a pirate himself, the two Illyrians should have already arrived in Lawless, if the weather had held. Apparently it hadn’t, if he hadn’t heard back by now.

Tarquin had sworn he’d send word to Rhys as soon as the ship reported making land. For now, Rhys could do nothing but wait and attempt to keep himself distracted. Which unfortunately was a lot more difficult stuck here by himself. 

Tamlin had gone riding up in the northwest corner of his lands, he and Lucien still dealing with some kind of bandit problem. The upside to Rhys's agreement with Amarantha, if you could call ‘desperate plea made while he could barely stand from the pain of the poison stealing his powers’ an agreement, was that Rhys’s court was the only one not currently trying to control the unruly, traumatized survivors of the dissident tunnels where Amarantha had thrown those who rebelled, who spoke up, or who she simply decided she didn’t like that week. 

The Illyrians had not been held for long, just a few months, and there had been enough of them all together that they had largely simply rebuilt their own war bands, down in the dark, had kept to their discipline and training. They hadn’t lost as much as many of the fae from the other courts, which meant they had lost less mentally, too. Many of the fae seemed hardly able to understand where to begin putting their lives back together.

Rhys knew very well how it was to come out of captivity and struggle to understand what it was like to live without it again.

Tamlin was going to have to arrest people who had already lost everything. That had to be difficult, and he didn’t envy Tamlin the task. He’d spent centuries telling himself he was stronger than Tamlin, in every conceivable way, but he would have balked at this, and Tamlin did not. Tamlin had been able to put the greater good of his lands above the suffering of a few individuals, every inch the High Lord in control.

He’d simply gotten up before dawn a few weeks ago, on a night Rhys hadn’t had a single nightmare, dressed himself in loose, comfortable clothes that showed the scars down one arm and his neck and collarbone, and he’d left.

Unfortunately, that meant Rhys’s bed was entirely too empty, night after night. It meant he had too much time to think about the crawling absence of Cas and Az, and he had nightmares about them dead at sea or trapped underneath Amarantha nearly every night. Since he could not distract himself with Tamlin, he did the next best thing; paperwork and drinking. Or rather, pretending to do paperwork while drinking.

Rhys was sitting at a small table in his bedroom, looking over reams of documents he’d piled up there earlier in the day and trying to decide where to begin, when he heard a knock at the door. He looked up, frowning faintly, trying to remember if he expected anyone or not. Not that it ever stopped his family from interrupting him before…

“Come on in,” He said, finally, sitting back in his chair. The paperwork could wait. Maybe he could just focus on the drinking, for now.

He blinked in surprise when it was neither Nuala nor Cerridwen at the door, but someone he didn’t recognize. 

“My apologies, High Lord,” The lesser fae murmured, bowing low at the waist. Rhys fought an instinctive distaste - that was how Amarantha made them bow. She was by no means the only High Fae who kept rules like that, but Rhys never had, and when he saw it, all he thought about was  _ her.  _

She must have mistaken the look on his face as dismay at her presence. She colored, slightly, setting a purplish flush to her shadowed skin. “Is something wrong?” She was a shadow fae like the twins, and could have passed for their younger sister, but Rhys knew the twins had no living family. It was part of the reason Azriel had brought them on to be spies, part of whatever had happened to them to bring them to his attention in the first place.

"I assumed you would be someone else,” Rhys said, and his eyes flickered to the bottle of kaymil she had balanced on a silver tray on one arm. “You’re not my usual-”

“Yes, I know,” She said, smiling faintly, in the way of the shadow fae, whose emotions were always written in vague suggestion rather than outright statement. “They have today off, and thought you might still have need of someone to ensure you ate and drank and did not forget.”

“Did they…?” Now that she said it, he did remember giving them today off, and their protests that he would not care for himself well if they weren’t around. Rhys didn’t particularly care if he had servants or not, he’d always mostly taken care of himself. But when Az had shown up with Nuala and Cerridwen, who had been forced out of their hometown for reasons no one had ever elaborated on, they’d simply attached themselves to him and Rhys had never really had the heart to tell them no. When Azriel had sent them Under the Mountain to stay with him, he’d been absurdly, pitifully grateful for even that single reminder of home. “I don’t recall asking for anyone else.”

“You didn’t, my lord,” The shadow fae murmured. “Nuala did. She thought you might be… lonely.”

If that suggestion had been made by anyone else, there might have been an implication to it that Rhys would have been angered by - or intrigued by, depending on what phase of his life he had been in at the time. But coming from  _ Nuala _ , he knew that it was simple and sincere. Tamlin was gone and she thought he would be lonely in the townhome by himself while Mor and Amren were down in Hewn City working out some new trade agreements for Velaris.

Nuala, who had adored Tamlin unreasonably ever since Under the Mountain, simply understood that he was a little sad with his mate gone for so long, and suggested giving him someone else to talk to. He wondered, idly, what sort of face Cerridwen, who did  _ not  _ adore Tamlin, had made when she suggested that.

Then again, he was fairly certain he’d told the twins, firmly, not to send anyone and to leave him to his own devices. And he could have sworn there was a hint of a glamour around the shadow fae who stood looking curiously at him now.

“I do not require attendance,” Rhys said carefully, laying his palms flat on the top of the table, watching her. He couldn’t quite see through the glamour, and he wasn’t sure he wanted her to know he was suspicious, but… she was definitely trying to hide something. “Leave the bottle and glass and go, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, my lord.” There was a hint of disappointment and… was that anger?... on the shadow fae’s face, but she set the tray down, bowed once again, and left, closing the door behind her. Rhys let his mind wander, and followed hers, a mind heavily shielded and shrouded in shadow, until she had left the townhome entirely. Then Rhys sat up straight and built a barrier around his home, essentially locking himself in - and keeping anyone else who might want to arrive uninvited out.

“Something’s wrong,” Rhys muttered, staring at the bottle of kaymil. Did it seem… oily, in its decanter? Slightly colored with a rainbow of pastels, instead of its usual perfectly glasslike clarity? He swallowed, picked up bottle and glass, and carefully poured himself about three fingers.

The liquid seemed perfect and clear, in the actual glass. Nothing to it. But Rhys had fallen prey to poisoned liquor once before, and he’d be damned if he’d ever fall for that trick again.

He went back to work, but he couldn’t seem to keep his mind on it. He kept drifting back to the shadow fae, the bottle, the clear glass of kaymil beckoning to him. There no longer seemed to be any oil or sheen to it, and it was possible he’d seen a glamour where there was none. Rhys had learned, since leaving Under the Mountain, that one side effect of living so long in hell was that hell tried, on occasion, to follow you out.

Either he was seeing things or his suspicions that someone might be trying to take him out had been correct, and to be honest he wasn’t entirely sure which idea bothered him more. 

_ I think you’ve been gone too long,  _ He sent down the mating bond, sitting back in his chair.  _ You should come back to me.  _ Tamlin was so far away, down in the Spring Court, he wondered if he’d even hear it.

There was a long pause, long enough that Rhys had begun to think maybe he hadn’t heard at all, before Tamlin’s low voice filtered into his thoughts.  _ I think I have, too. We’re nearly done here. I’ll come to you through the door when we get back. Fair warning, I’ve spent most of a month on a horse in a part of the Spring Court where they’re not much for drinking and no one has offered me a damn thing but water. I’m dirty and sober, and neither of those things puts me in a good mood. _

_ We have baths in the Night Court, you know. And liquor. I’ll wash all that dust off and pour you a drink myself.  _ Rhys sent an image of how he hoped that reunion would go.

Another long pause, and then, in an exasperated tone,  _ you do realize I’m standing next to several grown males I don’t particularly want to see me thinking about that sort of thing, right? _

_ Who cares? They can’t see inside your head. _

_ Not my head I’m worried about them seeing. Lucien’s face right now could burn stone. _

Rhys smirked and looked over the bottle and glass once more, thinking maybe he really  _ did  _ see a bit of color in it that shouldn’t be there.

He stood, moving out of his study, walking quickly down the hall. He stopped by each and every door, opening it to look in, reminding himself that this whole home was his. He did this every few weeks since he’d come back, just… remembering that _ this _ was the real thing, not his nightmares, not his dreams.

He wondered if Tamlin’s nightmares were worse, or if he was exhausting himself enough not to dream at all.

Even if Velaris was public knowledge now, thanks to what Cas and Az had done, the people of Hewn City had not, as he’d feared, decided on a semi-polite invasion and corruption of it. Velaris was too gentle, too full of artists and cafes and  _ light,  _ for the Court of Nightmares’ plotters and schemers. It had been declared a weak city where Rhys hid weak people, and they’d largely left it alone.

Lyria was building a second home here, though. Rhys felt his teeth grind together, thinking of her pile of red braids, the sneering twist of her mouth. She’d move in sometime over the summer, or so he’d been told - in the same conversation where Mor had insisted that he absolutely could not ban her from doing so, or he’d risk upsetting the delicate balance they maintained with the High Families.

Politics. He’d been better at it a half-century ago, when there had been some amusement and enjoyment to playing the game. Now, he mostly just felt exhausted by it. 

Rhys was letting his fingertips trail over a painting he’d bought recently, just a landscape with a night sky, when he heard the faintest whistle of air and jerked to the left, knowing the sound of a thrown blade when he heard it.

He spun around and saw… nothing. There was no impact, no sound of the knife hitting the wall or even dropping to the floor. When he looked down, there was nothing on the ground. There was no sign that anything had happened at all.

_ You really need to come back soon,  _ he sent down the bond, staring around the empty hallway.  _ I’m starting to see things.  _ Finally, he went downstairs, listening the whole way. There was no sound of footsteps behind him, no more phantom knives.

But something was wrong. His gut told him he needed to stay on guard. The last time he’d ignored his instincts, it had been when Amarantha threw a masquerade and they handed out drinks for the toast, and he’d realized that  _ only  _ the High Lords were being given the blue glasses full of something clear and herbal. Tamlin had been suspicious and refused at first to drink it. Rhys had mocked him over it, ignoring his own unease.

He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

He purposefully knocked something over, pretending to be distracted by it, leaving an opening for another knife to be thrown. No answer. No sound. No blade.

_ Do you need me to leave now? I can ask Lucien to handle the rest- _

_ No. Stay there. It’s good for your people to see you. I’ve got this taken care of. Just let me know when you get back. _

Rhys headed to the ground floor, walking around the kitchen, the casual sitting room, the dining room, the foyer. Finally he stopped, held himself perfectly still. Brought together power, from within himself, and called on his daemati blood to  _ listen. _

_ Find the shield,  _ he thought.  _ Find where it’s hiding, whatever it is. _

His home smelled of the fire still crackling in the fireplace, a mix of that and the bread Nuala and Cerridwen had baked before they left this morning. He focused on the tiniest details of normalcy, searching for what didn’t fit.

Rhys made himself walk around the long way, casually, as though he were going to pick out a book from the bookshelf in the living area. He could almost feel a pair of eyes, or a mind, following his progress through the house. He moved slowly, letting his power feel out the room. 

Rhys made his careful, silent way to the kitchen, listening. He moved over to the pantry, putting his hand on the door handle, closing his silently around it. He opened the door to see-

Nothing.

No one was there, glamoured or not.

“I need to leave this house,” Rhys said out loud, staring into the pantry at a line of different kinds of flour that Nuala and Cerridwen kept. How were there even six kinds of flour in the first place? What did they even  _ do _ with all of them?

Rhys stepped back, shaking his head. “I’m going stir-crazy in here without anyone else to talk to. I’ll just head to the cafe-”

The knife buried itself up to the hilt on his right shoulder, just above the place where his arm joined his back. Rhys choked back a cry, a burst of pain, the sudden dampening of his magic as the faebane the knife had been dipped in settled into the wound, trying to shut power away from him where he could not reach it.

Rhysand spun around, awkwardly yanking it out with his left hand. He groaned at the pain and the rush of warm wet blood down his back as he threw it to the side, his other hand already up to catch the second knife aimed for his chest. He misjudged the angle and instead of catching it, the blade went straight through the center of his palm. “ _ Fuck! _ ” His vision went white with fury and pain and he pushed his hand away from himself, forcing the blade through his palm until it was pressed flat against the hilt.

“Fuck- fuck, ow, fucking-  _ ow- _ ” The faebane was still spreading through his veins, faster now as his heart sped up, and he fell back against the wall as his hand began to drip blood onto his shirt and his pants and the kitchen floor.

The knife was a half-inch from his chest, hovering over his heart, being pressed with unnatural strength towards him even as he tried to push it back. 

He set his jaw, pulled together all the willpower he’d built over decades undergoing Amarantha’s tortures, and jerked his hand to the side even as he twisted his wrist, tearing the blade right out of the grip of someone he could not see in a burst of agony that made him scream through gritted teeth.

He grabbed the knife with his other hand and pulled it out of his palm, a white flash behind his eyes that sparked like a shooting star. Breathing in harsh gasps, he threw that one to the side, too. His eyes were dilating, he thought, and he felt a wave of dizziness that threatened to make his knees give out. He fought it back, grabbing with his unhurt hand at where he thought his attacker’s throat would be.

His fingers closed around warm skin, he felt the shift as the attacker swallowed hard. Got it, on the first try and with faebane already clouding his vision and slowing him down. Rhys felt absurdly, ridiculously proud of himself. He’d have to tell Tamlin about this.

_ Of course you will, he’s going to wonder why you’re bleeding. It’s already mucking up your head. _

He struggled to keep his grip strong as the faebane spread, but somehow he managed it. There was something warm and alive under his fingers. His other hand continued to drip blood in a growing stream onto the floor, and he narrowed his eyes. “Show yourself,” He hissed.

There was a shimmer in the air, in front of him, the feeling of fingers scrabbling at his grip. He put the other hand around its throat too, and where blood smeared he could see the outline of a thin throat. 

“I said, show yourself.”

The shimmer struggled, and fought, and Rhys tightened his grip, watching a trickle of blood run down that invisible neck and over what must be a collarbone. It gasped for air and he thought he knew the feeling, as pain throbbed alongside his heartbeat and he couldn’t quite seem to catch his breath. He’d he’d had experience in what it felt like to have a poison seep into every vein, and his grip never faltered. 

“ _ High Lord fucking half-breed, _ ” It hissed in a voice that could have been male or female or both or neither. “ _ Bleed, half-breed. We’ve no use for your weakness here. _ ”

“Did you really think it’d only take one knife? Or two?” He asked the shimmering air in a deceptively calm tone, putting the cruelly amused purr of the High Lord of the Court of Nightmares into his voice. It was hard, to keep his voice even. He tried to call the guards, but the fuzz of the faebane was making it hard to concentrate. “Do you even  _ know  _ how many places I’ve been stabbed, or cut? How many times making me bleed was her amusement for the night?”

He could feel it clawing at his hands, listening to its fight to breathe, waiting for it to give up and follow his command. He could still feel his powers, although the longer the faebane spread in his veins the weaker they became. It hadn’t been enough faebane to completely wipe him out, but all the poison really needed was time. There were black spots dancing at the corners of his vision but he ignored them and tightened his grip even more.

“Did you know that once, as my Starfall  _ gift,  _ she decided to see how many knives dipped in faebane I could take before I lost consciousness?” His eyes narrowed, and he leaned slowly down until he was sure he was whispering in the invisible creature’s ear. “She had all sizes of them. Big knives larger than my hand, little ones that were basically needles with delusions of grandeur. She’d been planning it all year, she said.” He took a ragged breath. “S-special-... special ordered a few. Amarantha loved to mark holidays and the passage of time.” The scrabbling was becoming more frantic, the gasps panicked. “She loves to…  _ loved to _ make me remember that I could never say  _ no _ . Or rather, that I could scream the word all I wanted but she chose whether or not she _ heard _ it.”

He felt his grip tighten, as he remembered what happened when Amarantha’s lovers tried to refuse.

“In case you were curious, the grand total was eleven. The largest blade was what finally knocked me out. I woke up three days later in her bed with a headache that could have wrecked a giant and it was more than a month until I could hobble back to my own room under my own power. Faebane heals so  _ slowly  _ when you don’t let your lover see a healer, doesn’t it? Doesn’t matter. She  _ loved  _ it. After that, she did it often enough that I started to develop a tolerance. Not much of one - turns out you _ can’t _ develop much of a tolerance, apparently. Just a little… resistance. In any case, it took her eleven knives to knock me out from blood loss, and you only have the two. But you know, placement played a big part in what she did to me, as well as the fact that I was chained to the ceiling at the time and not allowed to heal. It  _ still  _ took three hours for her to take me out. And you  _ really _ mucked up the placement.”

“ _ Fucking half-breed. You don’t belong here, you never belonged here.” _

“This is getting  _ tedious, _ ” He muttered. “Yes, I get it, half-breed, whatnot.”

“ _ Go suck the Spring Lord’s cock and leave the Court of Nightmares be. _ ”

“You know two males can do more than that right? Do I need to draw a fucking  _ diagram  _ of how it works? Does Helion need to give a  _ presentation?  _ Fine. If you’re not amenable to a conversation, I’ll just do everything the hard way.”

He called on daemati power, feeling the slight shift within himself, struggling against the taint of faebane in his blood. It hurt and it pulled on energy he did not have, but he managed it. The fae he was holding was shielded, but it was a thin and fragile wall. He couldn’t break it without risking hurting the creature, but Rhys found that he did not particularly give a damn.

He broke open the shields, feeling the scrabbling fingertips finally fall away as it went limp in his hand. He used the daemati’s talons to pull apart the pieces of the wall, throw them to the side, and look to see what was in there.

The glamour fell, and he was mildly surprised to discover it wasn’t the shadow fae who had come to him earlier at all. 

Hanging limp in his arms, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, was a young High Fae male, shortish, with the knobby elbows and knees of someone who had only recently become a grown male. Green eyes and copper hair, and a face that looked like-

_ Not her. She never had young. She never did. She didn’t- _

Rhys hissed and let go of the male, who only stood there blankly, as Rhys had broken open his mind and he was firmly under control. “Well  _ you’re _ young for an assassin,” Rhys said out loud, trying to steady his shaking nerves. “And thin.”

How had the creature had such immense strength when it was just a thin male High Fae?

He found a childhood, normal enough. The boy clearly belonged to the High Families, his memories involved a horse as a birthday present, private tutoring, a governess as his mother was busy handling work which kept her traveling and she did not keep a husband-

Rhys slammed into a mental brick wall and groaned at the flash of not-quite-pain in response.

The boy’s memories were open, up to a point, but here, starting about three years ago, they had been shut off, both from the boy and from Rhys’s attempts to get in. The faebane made him too weak to force his way in. The knowledge of who, exactly, had sent this little fae to kill him was too far hidden for him to find right now.

_ He doesn’t even know why he’s doing this, or who sent him,  _ Rhys realized. The boy’s mind had been broken into, moved around, remade. In the same moment, he understood what that  _ meant. _

This hardly-grown High Fae wasn’t the  _ assassin _ . He was just the weapon.

Rhys undid the compulsion he could feel pulsing through the boy’s mind, the way a whispered voice chanted  _ kill the half-breed, High Lord fucking half-breed, doesn’t belong, will never belong, not pure not pure not pure- _

He snapped the threads that pushed the boy’s actions, and then he simply let him fall to the ground, staring down at him, feeling a headache starting from his temples. It shouldn’t have taken so much effort. He needed sleep, so badly. Sleep off the faebane. Find a healer for his hand, which still bled freely onto the floor. The whole kitchen had begun to smell like it, and he swallowed against the tang of copper in the air and the pain in his veins. No. Now was not the time. When he let go of his mind the boy started to cough, hands at his throat, and then he slowly looked up.

His hair was a little faded, but his face and eyes - they looked like Amarantha, like… Lyria. 

Lyria, his courtier who was most definitely  _ not  _ a daemati, and who kept none in her home. Lyria, who feared unchecked daemati and had once crusaded for them to be put in chains to bind their magic when they weren’t needed. Who had always felt Rhys’s daemati powers were a curse, not a useful Cauldron-blessed trait like most of Hewn City did.

_ Learning about this definitely won’t improve her temperament.  _

“I-” The boy gasped. “My Lord. My High Lord. I… where am I?” His voice was a little slurred, as though he’d been drunk for years and only just started to sober up.

“What is your name?” Rhys asked, quietly. There  _ had _ been a glamour around the shadow fae, before. But she hadn’t been bringing him a poisoned drink; she’d been sneaking in a boy meant to kill him. A boy he wouldn’t know, because this High Fae had to be less than fifty years old.

He hadn’t made her drop her glamour, but he wondered if he would have recognized daemati if he had. Or if she had just been another remade pawn. She’d be long gone by now, whichever she was, which meant one more weapon on the loose.

“My Lord? Where am I?”

“You are in my home,” Rhys said, trying to make his voice gentle without giving away that the cruelty of his time in the court was only an act. It was a delicate balance, but he thought he just barely succeeded. “Who are you?”

“I-I don’t know how I got here, I swear, my lord, I would never trespass-”

"That’s not important,” Rhys snapped, then forcibly calmed himself. The black spots around the edges of his vision were getting worse. “Your High Lord has asked you a question and you will damn well answer it. Who are you?”

“Ren,” The boy said softly. “Ren, of Estate Privenah.”

He’d been right. This was Lyria’s youngest son, born of mysterious, never acknowledged paternity while Rhys had been Under the Mountain, just one of her brood of little vipers trained to pour their venom at her command. He’d have to make sure Ren went back to his mother… which meant he’d have to talk to her again, the absolute last thing on earth he wanted to do.

_ I take it back,  _ he said softly through the mating bond.  _ I need to see you as soon as possible. We have a problem here. _

“Ren, do you know why you’re here?”

“No, my lord,” The boy pushed himself to his feet, hands up like he thought Rhys would hit him or hurt him, shaking, wide-eyed. Not for the first time, Rhys wished that he did not have to pretend at cruelty with the Court of Nightmares, that they could have known who he really was. That he was no more a threat to this frightened young male than he would have been to a puppy. “No, sir, I don’t. I’m so sorry, my lord, I don’t know how I got here-”

“You’ve been remade by a daemati,” Rhys said honestly enough. He called, mentally, to guards he could feel nearby, asking them to come pick someone up. This time, it worked, although only just. Rhys swayed, a little, on his feet. “You will need to see a mind healer.” Rhys could see the wall inside of him, they had bound up his identity and subsumed it under their commands, but Rhys… well. He could remake, but he couldn’t rehabilitate easily, not without the chance of just causing even more damage.

He’d only tried it a few times, and the last had been with Tamlin Under the Mountain. He worried, sometimes, that part of Tam’s hard recovery from his time with her might be because Rhys hadn’t quite left everything the way he’d found it, so to speak.

“You will be escorted to a healer by the guards and then put into a room in my court while I send word to your mother. I assume she will come to get you once the healers have finished their work.” He closed his eyes, briefly, thinking. “My apologies, Ren, that you have been so ill-used.”

“Half-breed,” Ren said numbly. 

Rhys kept his face carefully still. The slur meant nothing to him after so long, not really - but it still stung to hear it from someone so young. He’d been so sure his time as High Lord would help them all to realize that being a half-breed was a strength and not a weakness. “What did you say?”

“That’s all I remember,” Ren said faintly, shaking his head back and forth. “I remember someone talking about the half-breed High Lord, that you were never supposed to come back from under. They made a deal with her, and her dying… it screwed up their plans. They were.. so angry…”

“Well, so am I,” Rhys said with careful evenness. “And I am a hell of a lot more powerful than anyone who dares question my heritage or who would make a deal with  _ her _ .”

_ Would Amarantha never stop haunting them? _

The guards made it to the door and he explained the situation to them, ordering Ren to be held under heavy guard in one of the guest quarters in Hewn City until his mother could collect him. “I will speak with her myself,” Rhys said, “so this may take a day or so. Keep an eye on him while the healers work and watch for any unusual behavior. Otherwise, give him anything he needs to feel comfortable in the meantime. Ren, should you recall anything further, please be sure to tell a guard as soon as you can.”

Why hadn’t Tamlin answered him yet? Rhys felt an uncharacteristic hint of nervousness. Just the faebane, he told himself, still spreading itself thin throughout every inch of his body. He’d have to sit down soon or he’d simply collapse.

Ren watched him with wide, terrified eyes, slowly nodding before he hurriedly bowed. Probably worried Rhys would order him torn limb from limb for a crime he wasn’t responsible for.

_ His mother would have ordered that done to Cas, if she thought she could,  _ Rhys thought, and set his jaw in an angry line. Lyria’s hatred was not Ren’s problem. And Lyria  _ hated  _ the daemati more than half-breed Illyrian High Lords and famously adored her children, so it couldn’t be her…

Then again, who knew what someone would do, when ambition was involved? She could have made a deal with Amarantha. It was possible. She’d always used her children, all of them, as simple tools in a toolbox for her own political plans. 

“Be calm,” Rhys said carelessly to the boy. “You won’t die for this. I am not in the habit of destroying a tool merely misused by its maker.” He dismissed the guards with a wave of his hand and closed the door.

Once it shut and no one could see him, Rhys let his knees buckle and caught himself on the arm of a chair, slowly going to the floor. He had forgotten he was still bleeding and watched the red stain soaking into the chair’s fabric and slowly growing. He thought of Tamlin’s dream, the black void in Amarantha’s chest, a growing red stain around it.

The gash in his hand was wide open and hard to look directly at. Everything hurt. He stumbled his way to the kit Nuala had kept in the kitchen, wrapping it in heavy canvas bandages until the pressure throbbed with his pulse. He felt half-stifled, suffocated by the faebane, almost too exhausted to move.

He forced his knees to lock and went upstairs, each step an effort, pulsing the white around his eyes a little more firmly into his line of vision. He was running out of time to keep himself standing, but he had one more thing to check.

In his room, he nearly knocked the bottle of kaymil off the table when he tried to pick it up, only managing to get his hands around it on the third try. He looked carefully at it, and this time he could tell there was nothing wrong with it and never had been. 

He’d been seeing things  _ and  _ he’d been right that someone was out to get him.

Tamlin’s reply finally filtered in, half-broken and hard to hear, faint and papered over with faebane.  _ -wrong? Give me a couple of hours, little rough here- fighting- _

His grip tightened around his glass and he cursed as he accidentally shattered the damn thing, hissing as the fiery alcohol soaked into his bandage and then found its way into the wound underneath. “Well that burns like hell,” He muttered. He couldn’t quite pull the glass back together, it was too much of a  _ pull  _ at dregs inside of him where there should be a well that went too deep to fathom. He watched it drip off the table and soak into the rug underneath, felt his nostrils flare at the sharp scent of it in the air.

_ Are you all right? Tamlin? _

Silence, and then finally,  _ thought it was bandits, but-... coming back to you soon. Run that bath for me, Rhys. Promise me you’ll be in it. _

_ Tamlin- _

_ -so faint? I can barely hear you. Rhys, I think we need to talk-... attacked Lucien and I-... not bandits- _

He heard the townhouse door open and then slam shut. Just as he tensed up, he recognized the footsteps pounding on the stairs. Rhys finally relaxed, allowing himself to collapse into his chair, his injured hand hanging down, pulsing, throbbing pain.

His hair fell over his eyes and he closed them, slowly. He was going to pass out. He was-

“Rhys! Are you all right?” Mor threw herself into his room and he looked up to see her eyes wide, her face pale, loose golden hair a windblown mess, wearing a red court dress with gold-thread embroidery that glinted under the faelights that lit the room. “The guards told me-”

“I’ll be fine,” Rhys muttered, putting a hand up over his head, belatedly realizing it was the injured one as pain flared and he smeared blood across his forehead and cheeks. He dropped it again. “Just a little mess.”

“A  _ little  _ mess?” Mor laughed, but it was a breathy, frightened sound. “You’re bleeding! The guards said you were attacked in your own home!”

“My fault,” Rhys said softly, closing his eyes again. Keeping them open was starting to hurt. “Let someone in who shouldn’t be here. Just a light stabbing.” He blinked, and looked down to realize he’d totally forgotten about his shoulder. He’d just… totally forgotten it. 

The wound there, blissfully numb until now, flared suddenly to life as he remembered it, and fought a battle with his hand over which wound hurt more.

Damn it, now he’d soaked  _ this  _ chair in blood, too.

“Just a  _ light stabbing _ ?”

“Please stop repeating everything I say,” Rhys said, groaning as he shifted position. “Cas does that and it drives me up the wall. I was attacked by one of Lyria’s sons.”

“Which one?” Mor blinked, moving over to him, clicking her tongue against her teeth at the sight of the blood. “I thought she wanted to  _ bed you,  _ not-”

“He didn’t know he was doing it,” Rhys said softly. “Daemati remade him. Knives were soaked in faebane. I’m not going far, for now.” The faebane had finally spread enough that his power felt so far away. The mating bond was all that held him to Tamlin, now. He couldn’t feel or hear anything, and he had to hope that meant it was okay. “Heard from Tamlin. He was attacked, too.”

“Someone’s trying to kill you  _ both _ ?” Mor frowned, reaching out to pull the torn cloth of his shirt away on his shoulder, take a closer look at the wound. “It’s a clean cut. Healers shouldn’t have much trouble, once the faebane’s out of your system. I’ll get some bandages, we’ll get you wrapped up.” She looked at the liquor-soaked bandage on his injured hand and sighed. “I’ll re-wrap that one, too. You smell like a sailor on leave.”

“Why are you here, Mor? You and Amren were meant to be at court until tomorrow.”

She gave him that look - a look of nervousness and a badly-disguised attempt to appear nonchalant he’d once been so annoyed by, and had missed with an intensity that was frightening while Under the Mountain. It was a look that said,  _ you’re too busy to hear about this important thing, I won’t tell you now, never mind. _

“As your High Lord,” He groaned, “I  _ order  _ you to tell me why you came back early. Don’t make me beg, Mor. I’m terribly undignified about it, and it would only embarrass the both of us. Ask Tamlin.”

Mor blushed bright red, even as she hesitated. “We’ve been called for an audience with Tarquin, with all the High Lords,” Mor finally said all in a rush of breath. “In five days.”

“What? Why? Tamlin’s not ready to see them all yet-” Rhys gritted his teeth, fighting the way the faebane wanted him to pull him back down into the dark of sleep. Not yet, damn it. He had a conversation to finish first. 

“He said it doesn’t matter,  _ everyone _ has to come.” Mor shook her head as though trying to clear it. “Rhys... the ship went down.”

“ _ What? _ ” He tried to stand, swayed on his feet, and then collapsed back into the chair as the dizziness overtook him.

“The ship Cas and Az were on went down less than a day from making landfall,” Mor said softly, tears in her eyes. “We put them on that ship, Rhys, the council and I. Only Amren voted against it... Tarquin sent word. It was attacked and went down just off the coast with all hands-”

“They’re both alive,” Rhys murmured, fighting the worsening pain in his head, thinking of the way Azriel had looked bathed in shadows before the court. The rage in his face as he’d made the shadows force Cas onto his knees so he could fight without worrying about hurting the one he was trying to rescue. “I would know if they weren’t, Mor, I would know.” The bargain they’d made, the three of them, was still written clearly across his collarbone and chest. He could feel their lives, connected by that thread to his. If they were gone, it would have faded too, along with his obligations to them. 

“Good,” Mor said, stepping back, sniffing and using both hands to wipe her tears away. “Good. Good. I just- It means-”

“It means that everything I think is happening is really happening,” Rhys murmured. She looked at him, confused, and he only shook his head. “This can’t be coincidence.”

“Their ship goes down and you nearly get attacked by someone who’s been remade-”

Rhys gestured to the bloodstain still slowly spreading on his shirt, although it was a little hard to see when the cloth was black. “I _ did _ get attacked. It just didn’t take. Why does everyone keep thinking I’m easy to kill? Tamlin’s been hit, too. I could… barely hear him. Shit, Mor, I’m tired.”

“That’s just the faebane. You can sleep it off once the healers are done. Cas and Az, Tamlin, and you. All at once, within a few weeks of each other,” Mor said, thoughtfully. “Someone wants a lot of people dead.”

“Tamlin said he thought it was bandits at first, but it wasn’t.”

“Is he all right? Do you need to go to him? I could probably handle-”

“No, Mor, but thank you. He didn’t seem hurt. It looks like someone wants us out of the way,” Rhys said. He wanted to sleep so badly, wanted the throbbing in his shoulder and his hand to cease and to fade. 

Damn it, he didn’t have time to be an invalid, he had bigger problems to deal with a court to run. He pushed himself back up until he sat up straight, ignoring the new, stronger wave of dizziness.

“Talk to Lyria after our meeting,” Mor said, with a professional distance and interest, the girl who had been raised in a High Fae family that believed it may one day take back the High Lord’s throne and who knew, deep in her bones, how to rule. All her panic and fear and worry over Cas and Az was gone, hidden behind the polite politician’s mask of her face. “Make sure she knows her boy is safe and under heavy guard, that she can see him as soon as you’ve spoken, but he’ll stay under guard until you are satisfied that all traces of the daemati control are gone and you’ve returned from your meeting. Lyria will understand. She hates daemati. I’ll tell Tarquin we’ll be there.” She frowned, hesitating. “All of us. Rhys, Tamlin has to go if he’s not badly injured. Tarquin wants  _ all  _ the High Lords there. He said it’s important that we all speak - all High Lords are to bring whoever they trust most.”

“Well that definitely sounds ominous. You and Amren, then,” Rhys said firmly.

“And Tamlin,” Mor said, but there was still a question in her voice. “Who will bring Lucien.” She smiled, slightly. “It’ll be nice to see him again.”

“Tamlin? You see him all the time.”

“ _ Lucien _ , you great single-minded oaf.”

“Oh, you like Lucien now? I guess he is pretty good-looking-”

“Not… exactly,” Mor said, wrinkling her nose. “He’s nice, but… not my type. Besides, if you go to bed with Lucien, you have to go to bed with that  _ sword of his,  _ too.”

“Y-you don’t like the sword? I like the sword-” He’d had a quip, some kind of funny retort, but it bled out of his mind and he felt himself slowly slipping to the side, losing his posture, beginning to slide out of the chair. Mor caught him, but only just.

“Rhys, you need to  _ rest  _ until the healers arrive, you’re a mess.”

“I’d like to think I’m a  _ gorgeous  _ mess,” He muttered, and felt Tamlin shimmering along the mating bond, a sense of a question that couldn’t quite make it through the distance and the cloud of faebane.

_ I’ll have your bath ready,  _ Rhys sent to Tamlin, pouring all his remaining magic into it.  _ But you’re not going to enjoy the conversation we’ll have. _

A pause.

Tamlin’s voice, when he replied, was equally exhausted. Rhys thought he might feel a trace of faebane along it, too.  _ Then we have the conversation  _ after  _ the bath. Might not be as energetic as I’d hoped to be. _

Rhys smiled, just slightly.  _ You all right? _

_ Will be. Hurts like a bitch, though. _

_ I love you, Spring. _

_ I love you, Nightmare. _ Tamlin’s voice was a faded whisper, and Rhys wondered if he hadn’t simply heard the reply coming from his own thoughts.

Mor was watching him, and tilted her head. “You really do  _ like  _ him,” She said, softly. “Don’t you?”

“We  _ are  _ mates, Mor,” Rhys said, rolling his eyes, a little embarrassed she’d caught him without his guard up. She put her hands around his arm and helped him to stand. He had to shuffle to his bed like an old mortal, an invalid, closing his eyes as his headache pounded more painfully with each step.

“That doesn’t matter. Mates don’t always like each other. The Cauldron chooses for other reasons. But you… really do _ like  _ him. You  _ hated him  _ for so long…”

“He deserved it, for a while. But I liked him before that.” He collapsed onto the bed, fully clothed, just letting himself bleed onto the covers. He’d get new ones. It didn’t matter.

Rhys’s eyes closed.

_ A younger Tamlin, trained by life in his father’s troops to roll out of bed before dawn, pulling a protesting Rhys awake as well to go riding, the brilliant smile on his face as Rhys complained about it still being dark outside.  _

_ He’d only really agreed when he’d seen Tamlin’s older brother, already up himself, glaring at them from the doorway to his own room with eyes that shot daggers at Rhys, with a blatant hatred that he did not even try to cover up. _

_ Rhys only recognized now, looking back, that Tamlin’s brother had been very well aware of how Tamlin felt about Rhysand. And he had not liked it at all. _

_ “I thought you liked the dark, Nightmare. Come on, I want to show you this waterfall, you have to see it when the sun first hits it, you have to see the colors.” _

_ “The fuck do you think you’re doing?” The brother, still glaring as they headed for the stables, following them out.  _

_ Tamlin had turned around, shot that strangely disarming genuine smile back over his shoulder, and shrugged. “I want to show him the waterfall, Trevyn.” _

_ “What, like he’s a female you’re courting? Tobias took his female there to propose, you plan to do the same?” Trevyn’s voice had been a sneering, thick bit of hate, and Rhys had bit back a retort. Tamlin had made it clear that talking back to his brothers never ended well - Trevyn might let what Rhys said go while he was here, but Tamlin would be the one to pay for it once he left again. _

_ Tamlin had blushed, and Rhys had taken it for simple embarrassment at his brother’s rudeness at the time. “No, Trev. We’ll be back by lunch.” Then he’d simply pulled Rhys away and the two of them had never looked back as they mounted their horses and rode for the waterfall. _

He hadn’t recognized it, Under the Mountain, when he had gone into Tamlin's mind to pull him back out of himself. There had been too many years since, and he’d been too focused on his goal to get Tamlin out of his own head before he decided he never wanted to leave it. Then he’d been too distracted by realizing that Tamlin wanted him, freely and truly wanted him, all on his own.

Too distracted by giving in to the thing he’d already known about himself, that he’d warned Azriel about and tried to fight and failed - that he wanted Tamlin, too.  

But when Rhys had ordered Tamlin’s mind to find him somewhere safe to hide, the waterfall he’d taken Rhys to had been there. He’d had Feyre, a memory of happiness and love. But the safe ground beneath Tamlin’s feet had been the clearing next to the waterfall where he and Rhys had sat that day - and many days more, over the course of their friendship - with their breakfasts and watched the sunlight turn it into colors Rhys couldn’t even name. 

In Tamlin’s mind, Rhys had seen the darkness at the bottom of the rushing water. Darkness and stars. He just hadn’t understood at the time why there were stars at the bottom of the waterfall, why the night sky was down there with the rushing water. He wondered what he and Tamlin might have figured out if he’d gone into the darkness to look.

_ How did we not know?  _

“He’ll sit next to you at the meeting, of course” Mor was saying, gathering the papers ruined by kaymil still on his desk, sighing heavily when she looked down at them.

Rhys groaned, closing his eyes again. “Normally the High Lords sit with their own people-”

“Tamlin  _ is  _ your people. And…” The smile faded, just a little. “I think he’ll need you.”

He thought about the strange way Tamlin still hid from the other High Lords even as he refused to glamour away his scars, forcing everyone he met to see that they’d stood by and watched while he and Rhys were hurt. The only other High Lords he’d seen since he came out from Under the Mountain, as far as Rhys knew, was Tarquin and Kallias, and that had been a brief diplomatic meeting about the bandits that freely crossed their shared borders, using the Summer Court mountains as a kind of middle ground. 

Tamlin had gone to that meeting, by Lucien’s account had been perfectly fine in front of everyone, if a little irritable, and then come home and locked himself in his study for a full week. That had been before he’d come back to Rhys.  

What would he be like, if he had to see the other High Lords when it wasn’t on his own terms or when he was ready? Would it be like Rhys trying to make him look at himself in a mirror, or worse?

No. His clouded, hurting mind did not want to think about this. He needed sleep. He needed a healer. He needed Tamlin home.

“I know,” He said finally, heavily. “Don’t worry. I’ll get him there.”

“I’ll be right back with a healer,” Mor said softly. “Rest while I’m gone.”

_ Ready or not, Tamlin,  _ Rhys thought in a foggy haze, letting himself drift away into a painful sleep,  _ here we go. _


	10. Suspicions

“Are you sure you want to wear that?” Rhys asked, in a low voice. He was lounging shirtless in a comfortable chair, with fresh bandages over his shoulder and hand. The healers could work to pull the faebane out, but wounds made with faebane would have to heal on their own.

Tamlin nervously adjusted the neckline of his shirt, wincing as his wrists ached. His fault for punching as hard as he had when they'd attacked him. “I’m sure.” 

“I know what you’re trying to do.”

“Oh, do you?” He tried on a smile that didn’t quite fit, and went back to fidgeting. 

“Tamlin, you don’t need to do this. It’s been a hard week for both of us. No one will blame you if you want to do this the easy way this time, considering we were  _ both stabbed five days ago. _ ”

“Only the one time," Tamlin muttered, feeling the twinge of pain just below the back of his ribcage on his left side. He had his share of bandages, too. They hadn’t caught any of them, either - all three had gotten away after stabbing him and knocking Lucien off his horse. Tamlin had fought his attacker off and had the bruises to prove it, but it still annoyed him that he hadn’t managed to catch even one for interrogation.

The faebane had kept him from shifting into the beast just long enough for them to escape.

But Tamlin couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he hadn’t been meant to actually  _ die _ . The stabbing had been a warning. He just… didn’t know what they were trying to warn him  _ about.  _ All they’d said was something about the sun setting. He wondered if, like Rhys’s attackers, he would have discovered daemati-remade fae, mindless weapons wielded by an invisible hand.

“A little stabbed is still stabbed, or so Mor keeps insisting to me,” Rhys replied, shifting a bit in his chair. “I’m not telling you not to wear the outfit, I just want to be sure  _ you  _ know why you’re dressed this way.”

He didn’t need to look in a mirror to understand exactly why Rhys felt the need to question it.

The pants and boots were the same as they always were, but Tamlin’s shirt, simple and cream-colored, had a lower neckline than he’d worn since the first few nights Under the Mountain, and he’d pushed his sleeves up until they were gathered most of the way up his forearms, combed his short hair so it wouldn’t hang over the left side of his face as much as it normally did. In a shirt like this, none of them would be able to hide from the spirals and whorls Amarantha had so carefully carved into his skin.

“I’m not going to stop you, if that’s what you’re hoping.” Rhys sat back in his chair, sipping from a teacup. “I’ve never liked an outfit of yours more than this one. You have a good collarbone. I like looking at it. Pity I'll be sitting beside you and not across, where I'd have the best view.”

“I don’t want you to stop me,” Tamlin said, not entirely sure that was true. “I want you to tell me that I  _ should _ wear it - that they  _ should _ see. Also, that’s a strange compliment.”

“Might I remind you that every other High Lord was  _ also  _ subjected to the constant draining of their powers and a prohibition against doing her any direct harm, Spring? Lives were lost when they tried to fight back. It’s not like they threw you into a pit and walked away.” 

Tamlin looked away from him, staring out the window as though he saw something fascinating out there. “I know they didn’t. But… we threw  _ you  _ into a pit and walked away.”

“You were technically forced back to your lands to live out the curse, as I recall - and I remember you being pretty pissed off when she declared me as hers.”

“Mostly because I thought you were just grasping for more power, not trying to save your people. If I had just said yes to her, when she had me standing in front of everyone after she poisoned us-”

“What, do you think she was telling the  _ truth  _ when she said she’d spare us if you went to her? Tamlin, that was a lie and everyone in that room knew it. No High Lord blamed you for standing your ground. We all knew that if you had gone to her, she would have kept us all for her captive court just the same. You might have been a prize to win, but she was after Prythian itself, too.”

“But  _ you- _ ”

“Would have lurked and brooded and never had the chance to remember what you should have been to me all along. Spring, I don’t exactly have honor to defend. Why dress like that on  _ my _ behalf? Again, not that I’m complaining. I am currently entertaining the idea of seeing how much of your neck I can lick before you push me away.”

Tamlin silently smoothed invisible wrinkles out of his shirt, looking down at his hands. The callouses that had begun to go fade over his two years Under the Mountain had roughened up again, now that he made himself go out and run his court. When he answered Rhys’s question, he didn’t answer it out loud.

_ Because all of them took what happened to you - and to us - and they put it out of their heads. _

_ You don’t know that. _

_ Yes. I do. They stayed away, refused to talk or even be seen with us. They watched her use me to make you give up the Illyrian war bands and Lucien was the only one who really protested. They watched us up there next to her throne and did nothing. I want them to see what they should be so Cauldron-damned thankful for missing out on. _

“Does it look bad?” He asked out loud. Tamlin’s facade of irritability broke and the nervousness showed underneath.

“No, Tam. It doesn’t.” Rhys sat back in his chair, not a hair out of place, letting the teacup dangle from his fingers like it was a wine glass, choosing simply to ignore the residual ache in his wounded shoulder. “It’s actually taking a surprising amount of self-control not to peel it right back off of you and try to prove to you that your scars aren’t anything to be ashamed of.”

_ I hope you’re being honest. _

_ I am. It really is very difficult not to take that shirt right back off of you.  _

_ I meant about the scars not being… shameful. _

There was a pause.  _ I know what you meant.   _ Out loud, he said, “You asking me to be honest is sort of funny, isn’t it? We both know I’m a famous liar. Half the fae in Prythian would tell you I’m so dishonest that I tell lies to get females into bed.”

Tamlin snorted. “The males might say that. The females would know better. You didn’t need to lie to get  _ me _ in bed.”

 “There were extenuating circumstances,” Rhys said with a wry, slightly pained smile. “Also you are a man.”

“I didn’t mean those times. I meant later. Besides, you could probably talk  _ Lucien _ into bed with you, and he still hates you.”

Rhys was looking out the window and nearly choked on his tea. “Lucien hates me? And here I've been so  _ nice _ to him lately. No thanks. I’m not much for foxes.”

“He’s not much for you, either. He’d have to be _ really  _ drunk.” Tamlin looked out the window at the sun shining on the ground below. 

Tamlin had always been at his best staring down an enemy’s weapons rather than trying to plan for them, or avoid them. He’d been a mess waiting for Amarantha to come get him, because he had no idea what to do when he could not face his opponent in a fair fight. Whether the High Lords were polite or not, their attention on him was going to feel like a fist.

It didn’t matter. Rhys would be there to ensure anyone who made a comment out of turn regretted it. 

“I like to imagine my natural charm would negate  _ some  _ of the need for drunkenness.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Rhys, but your charm is not endless.”

Rhys drained the last of his tea, looking at Tamlin over the rim of the cup. “Charmed you well enough.”

“Besides, it’s not just Lucien you have to charm these days.”

“Right.” Rhys smirked. “Forgot about his  _ sword.  _ How easy is the sword to talk into bed, any idea?”

Tamlin laughed, some of the tension easing in him. “Surprisingly easy. I can't hear it but whatever it says to or about me around Lucien makes his face the same shade as his hair. Let me remind you, though, it  _ is  _ a sword, and it’s jealous as hell.”

“Hm. Well that would be two of us. Does he tell you what it says? I might want to talk to that sword.”

“No, he doesn't. You don’t need to be jealous. I like that you’re totally devoted to me.”

It was Rhys’s turn to laugh. “Right, sure, it’s  _ me  _ that’s devoted. Which one of us recently admitted to carrying a torch for the other one for several centuries? Who admitted to being interested in the other?”

“... Both of us admitted that, Rhys.”

“Yes, but which one of us admitted it  _ first? _ ”

Tamlin closed his eyes briefly, scowling, but Rhys could see the smile fighting to undo the expression. “If anyone out there is immune to you, it’d be Lucien.”

“Thank the Cauldron,” Rhys said, with real feeling.

“Hey, Lucien isn’t exactly  _ hideous _ .” 

“Are you trying to defend whether or not Lucien is  _ attractive?  _ I told you, foxes aren’t my type.”

“What  _ is  _ your type?”

“Hm.” Rhys made a show of pretending to think about it. “My type is someone who can lay a trap, take down prey, stalk them through the woods… someone who would wear fifteen shades of brown given half a chance and me not telling them not to-”

“I’ve literally  _ never _ seen you _ not  _ wearing black,” Tamlin snorted.

“-someone who argues about everything, has an endless well of irritable temper…”

“So far so good.”

“... someone damaged by a traumatic past who throws themselves at problems that would be better fixed by thinking them through…”

“Now you’re just describing yourself.”

“Oh, true. And you  _ did _ teach me how to hunt. Maybe  _ I’m  _ my type.” Rhys grinned. Tamlin threw a pillow at him and Rhys caught it in one hand effortlessly, getting to his feet. “Don’t start a fight you can’t finish, Spring.”

“You think I can’t finish a fight with you?” 

“I think you could start one,” Rhys said smoothly, stepping closer. “You might even get a few good hits in. But I don’t think it’d end as a  _ fight. _ ” 

He acted as if he were going to pat Tamlin on the side of the face and grinned fiercely as Tamlin’s hand snapped up to grab him by the wrist, pushing his arm back down to his side as he stepped closer, their faces only inches apart. The ache in his shoulder was far less noticeable than the very real pleasure he felt somewhere  _ else _ . “Take care, High Lord," Tamlin said, and his green eyes were sparkling. "Fight or not, I intend to  _ win. _ ”

“What would we do, if not fighting? How would you win?” Rhys said in a husky near-whisper. He jerked his arm free, grabbed Tamlin, and spun him around, twisting  _ his _ arm up behind his back, leaning over to whisper in his ear. “Although if you think about it, Tam, it’s kind of like fighting, isn’t it?”

Tamlin let out a rush of air, arching his back slightly so his head dropped back onto Rhys’s shoulder. Then he dropped down into a crouch, pulled himself free, and spun around, shoving Rhys's back against a wall, forcing his hands down to his sides.

Rhys held back a wince as his shoulder-wound ached, but that pain - numbed by the salve the healers had given him - was nothing compared to his absolute focus on the look on Tamlin’s face.

Tamlin leaned in, whispering so their mouths just slightly brushed, “I’m  _ very good  _ at fighting.”

“I really  _ am  _ a bad influence on you.” Rhys kissed him again, gently freeing himself.

“The best kind of influence, right? Isn’t that what you used to say when we were friends before?” He’d have gone to the ends of the earth and back again to see Tamlin smile like this, free of the ghosts that usually hid behind his eyes.

Which, unfortunately, he would have to bring back.

“Are we ready?” Rhys tilted his head.

Tamlin nodded and, distracted by whatever in his thoughts had him smiling like that, looked at himself briefly in the mirror on the way to the door. Rhys caught his breath and held it, waiting for Tamlin to realize what he’d done. Waiting for him to break down or get angry at himself or tear the mirror off the wall. 

But he didn’t seem to even notice and simply stopped with the door open, looking back at Rhys. “What’s wrong? Are you coming? We have to go get your cousin, right? And the… and Amren?”

“Right,” Rhys said, hearing the rush of warmth in his voice.  _ One step at a time,  _ he thought. That was how healing worked, for himself  _ and  _ for Tamlin.

One glance in the mirror without hesitating led to another, and another, and eventually to taking all the cloth down over the mirrors at Rosehall. Each night he woke up to Tamlin already opening the windows to let in fresh air after a nightmare led to a night where he slept straight through, and another, and maybe even a third. 

One step at a time, that was how Amarantha’s lovers would heal from the wounds she’d left in them even after her death.

_ If you had asked me six years ago if I would be glad to discover you were meant to be my mate, Tamlin, I think I’d have laughed until my ribs ached. _

_ I’d have punched you and probably called you names. _

_ You’re terrible at coming up with insults, they wouldn’t have been any good. I’d have just laughed harder. _

Tamlin snorted, holding the door open for Rhys as the other man walked through. When they stepped out into the hall, Tamlin let his hand graze Rhys’s, just slightly. “Hey, hold on a moment.” The light in his voice and his eyes had gone.

“What is it?”

“Don’t… don’t defend me, when we’re there. If anyone says anything.”

“They won’t.”

“Still. I have to be what I am, when I’m there. If you try and defend me, I’ll lose all their respect as a High Lord. They’ll think I’m just… with you.”

Rhys slowly nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll hold my tongue. Within reason.”

Mor met them at the landing, wearing one of her endless array of red dresses. This one was tailor made for a trip to the Summer Court, a sleeveless loose fabric, unadorned, letting air move through it. Her hair was pulled back at the top, caught in a gold clasp, but allowed to spill loosely like a waterfall down her shoulders and back. She looked every inch the nobility she was and Rhys whistled, long and low. She blushed and punched his arm. “Quit it, Rhys.”

“What?'

"Tamlin is  _ right there." _

"I find a mate and suddenly I'm not allowed to appreciate a woman’s beauty any longer?”

“If _ he’s  _ not,” Tamlin said as he bowed low, taking her hand and pressing a perfectly courtly kiss to the back of it, “can  _ I  _ appreciate it? You look  _ gorgeous." _

"You only say that because all you get to see these days is Rhys," Mor laughed, pulling her hand away.

"My mate may be male, but that doesn't mean I've lost my sense of women, too." He winked. 

"Pfffft." Rhys snorted, sliding an arm around his shoulders. "Everyone in this room knows damn well that  _ you  _ never had  _ any  _ sense when it came to women."

"I did just fine with them!"

"I did better." Rhys's voice was smooth as silk.

Tamlin turned his head, eyes narrowed, and the two stared each other down. Rhysand tightened his hand around Tamlin's shoulder. "You want me to show you what  _ sense _ I had of women?" Tamlin asked, in a very soft voice. “You’re the one who taught me, after all.”

“Oh, I did, didn’t I?” Rhys raised an eyebrow. “Remind me what  _ lessons  _ I taught you, exactly?”

"Oh Cauldron above and below, will you  _ stop? _ " Mor rolled her eyes. “I thought it was bad enough to be cousin to  _ one  _ High Lord. Now I’ll have to learn how to deal with  _ two  _ of you doing this. I swear, Rhys, it's all you even  _ think _ about since you came back!" She was already moving away from them, and missed the ripple of darkness that passed over Rhys's face.

“Oh no, you poor creature, trapped under the worshipful gaze of two powerful High Lords, whatever shall you do,” Tamlin drawled, covering the moment of awkward silence, and she smacked him again. 

_ Stop it. It's normal. It's just because you're free. It's just from getting to make our own choices again. _

_ How the hell do I know what's normal any longer, Tam? _

“In  _ any case,  _ you two insufferable flirts look good,” Mor said approvingly. If Tamlin noticed the way her eyes stuttered and skipped over his scars, he didn’t show it. 

“For fae who just survived coordinated assassination attempts, I’d say we look  _ amazing, _ ” Rhys said pointedly.

“A confused boy holding a dagger and a couple of half-starved bandits hardly count as coordinated.” Mor rolled her eyes.

“Technically he was a grown adult male, and it’s still more assassination attempts than  _ you _ survived.”

“Besides, you  _ always  _ think you look amazing,” Mor groaned.

“Well… I mean, it’s true.”

“Why did I want you back home so badly again?” She said, throwing her hands in the air as they walked outside.

“You missed my humility,” Rhys teased, and then looked at Tamlin. “Will Lucien meet us there?”

“Yes,” Tamlin said, a little distractedly, fussing at his shirt’s neckline and sleeves again, pushing the sleeves even further up his arms to expose more of the scars that stippled over his muscled forearms. Rhys found his eyes straying to the inside of Tamlin’s wrist, had to stop himself from reaching out to touch him. “He had something to do this morning, something with his sword.”

“Bet _ I  _ know what he did with his sword,” Mor muttered. Rhys laughed so loud a few Velaran citizens up the road actually turned back to look and wave. 

“Look,” Tamlin started, holding up a finger to stop her, “It’s not  _ always  _ a sword, and it gives him really good advice, too. And what about Amren? I haven’t had my dose of absolute mortal terror for my life yet today. I don’t think she likes me.”

“With her, it’s hard to tell,” Rhys said with a shrug. “I think she likes you better than my last lover, at least. She has yet to make _ you _ cry and she stares at you a  _ lot _ .”

“Is… staring a  _ good _ sign? What did the last one do to be so disliked?” Tamlin asked, blinking.

“Amren didn’t like her hair,” Mor said smoothly. “Or that she became very sick the first time she saw Amren drink blood."

"She was  _ surprised, _ " Rhys said defensively. “It’s  _ surprising  _ when someone drinks blood at dinner!”

"What was the problem?" Tamlin blinked. "It was just animal blood, right? Just don't look if it's a bother."

Mor laughed. "See, that is why I can tell you she likes you better. She’s going to meet us there, in any case. She went early, she said she needed to speak with someone first.”

Tamlin took a deep breath, looked up at the brilliant, cloudless blue of the morning sky. Then he looked back at Rhys.

_ I can do this. _

_ Yes. You can. You’ve faced worse than this. This is just a bunch of egos jostling for supremacy, nothing more. _

_ And I suppose you intend to be the ego that wins? _

_ Oh, Spring. I’ve already won. The rest of them just haven’t noticed yet. _

The three of them winnowed to the Summer Court.

* * *

“Rhysand,” Tarquin said, with a courtier’s false warmth in his voice as he greeted them, a smile fixed on his dark face. “For once you’re not fashionably late.” They clasped hands briefly, not even something you could call a shake, and Tarquin’s eyes were neutral, neither warm nor cold.

Rhys thought of one of Tarquin’s courtiers, dragged before Amarantha, a lordling he’d dragged a plot against Amarantha out of and then killed out of mercy. He’d lied to save Tarquin’s skin that day, and the High Lord of Summer had known it. 

That was the day he’d been ordered into Tamlin’s head, too. Tarquin had been one of those still in Amarantha’s throne room, ordered to watch while Tamlin screamed and screamed - for how long? He had no idea, it had felt like hours - and then simply collapsed. Tamlin himself did not remember any of it, Rhys had wrapped that trauma up so tightly in the back of Tamlin’s mind it’d never find its way out… but from his expression, it was clear that Tarquin did.

Rhys had to fight to keep his own face blank, and only inclined his head. “My mate doesn’t see the value of fashionable lateness.”

“Or fashionable anything,” Tamlin said at his side, reaching out as well. 

“Tamlin, it’s wonderful to see you,” Tarquin said with real feeling, and Tamlin actually pulled back slightly, eyes narrowing.

_ Tamlin, people are allowed to be happy to see you. _

_ Yes, but… have any of them ever been happy to see me before? _

_ Not really. You were an arrogant asshole. _

_ You’re one to talk. _

_ Hey, I didn’t say they were happy to see me, either, did I? _

Tarquin shook Tamlin’s hand, eyes lingering over the spiral pattern of scarring on the left side of Tamlin’s face, and Tamlin colored slightly as he realized it. “If it weren’t for Rhys,” Tamlin continued with a note of nervous, overdone cheerfulness, “I’d probably show up in the same clothes I might use to muck out the stables.”

“You muck out your own stables?” Tarquin asked faintly, but Tamlin had already moved away from him, getting away from his gaze. He greeted Varian and Cresseida only briefly as he headed towards the doorway into the meeting room. Tarquin glanced back at Rhysand, raising one eyebrow. “He mucks out his own stables?”

“Don’t look at me,” Rhys said, putting both hands in the air. “I don’t even  _ have _ a horse.”

Tarquin, despite himself, let out a soft, nearly soundless laugh. “It’s good to see you, too, Rhysand,” He said with real sincerity. “No matter what is said today, I at least am glad you found your freedom.”

“And I must say, Tarquin, that I am grateful for the assistance you gave Lucien and the part you played in it.” 

"Right. How is Lucien these days? Is he coming? Is he bringing his sword? That sword was found in  _ my _ court, you know. I'd be happy to show you and Tam the ruins."

Rhys grinned at him, and was surprised by the warmth with which Tarquin returned the expression. "I'll take you up on that. Let me rejoin my mate. I… thank you, Tarquin." He inclined his head in something like a bow of respect, and left Tarquin smiling.

Kallias had apparently beaten them here and was standing just outside the door to the huge war room where Tarquin had decided to host everyone. He wore a pure white high-necked shirt and matching pants, with only the faintest silvery-blue embroidery that caught certain lights. Rhys stopped short, thinking of Tamlin’s black outfits Under the Mountain, with that same silvery embroidery, and wondered if that was purposeful.

Rhys watched with slightly narrowed eyes as Tamlin and Kallias spoke, briefly, before his mate moved forward into the room without looking back. 

Kallias’s cold blue eyes locked on his, and he did not even attempt to feign a smile. “Kallias,” Rhys said carefully. “It’s been a while.”

“Hasn’t it just. How goes it, daemati?”

“... You could just call me by my name, Kallias.”

“Ah, but why would I?” Kallias grasped Rhys’s hand a little too tightly and whispered, “This wouldn’t be the first time your family targeted the Spring Court. If you remade him, I  _ will  _ find out.”

“What are you saying?” He kept his voice low, and even, but it took effort. “I wouldn’t-”

“There are three facts you should try to remember, Rhysand,” Kallias said with a deadly softness, those glacial eyes fixed on his. "The first is that my predecessor was good friends with Tamlin’s father. I remember Tamlin as a growing child and I promised my predecessor upon his deathbed that I would keep an eye on Reynaud’s youngest, since he’s never had the common sense the Cauldron gave a goat. The second is that you are a known daemati, and everyone you see today is well aware that you gain an advantage by having what amounts to  _ two _ lands under your control.”

“I don’t  _ control  _ Tamlin,” Rhys hissed, letting the disgusted anger show in his voice. At the same time, though, he couldn’t quite keep from his mind the image of Lyria watching them in Hewn City, the way he’d slid his hand up to grip the back of Tamlin’s hair. For all the fear Rhys had felt from him, he had still ordered Tamlin to stand still, and he had obeyed.  _ You are not like her. These fae do not truly know you at all. _

_ Cauldron, though, it felt good to have someone do what  _ I  _ said, for once... _

“Don’t you?” Kallias asked, with deceptive mildness, a bit of white hair falling across his pale forehead. “When I last saw your  _ mate, _ ” He emphasized the word with a deliberate lack of emotion, “he seemed unable to say much negative about you. Could be the simple adoration of two mates for each other, common when the bond is new. Or… it could be something else. Are we going to see Tamlin disagree with you today, Rhysand? Or just a devoted partner who could never dream of telling his  _ mate  _ no?”

Rhys let his voice drop into something only just above a whisper. “I don’t use my power that way, and you’d be wise not to ever suggest I do again.”

“Oh don’t you?” Kallias asked, cold enough to freeze the ocean outside Tarquin’s door. His grip on Rhys’s hand tightened until it was nearly painful, but Rhys had grown up with a father who liked power plays like this and he didn’t so much as bat an eyelash. “This is the third thing you must remember, Rhysand. I know _ exactly _ what daemati can do to destroy a person’s mind. I’ve seen it done to _ children _ . I’m not stupid, and I don’t underestimate you.” He raised one white eyebrow, slowly. “After all, I was present when she displayed for us the result of your  _ craftsmanship _ .”

_ When Amarantha had ordered Tamlin to think about escaping her, just as a bit of amusement for herself, and the war between her command and what Rhys had done to his mind had shredded him. Tamlin had screamed, at first, at the pain and then simply… slumped over, eyes wide and sightless, gone away, deep into his mind, back to that waterfall until Rhys could pull him back out... _

“So was half of Prythian, if you believe the stories,” Rhys said, trying to sound careless, stumbling just a little over his words, a spike of guilt and fear twisting inside of him. The healing wounds in his hand and shoulder began to throb as his heart pounded. “Seen me with a male before, Kallias? You genuinely think if I was going to  _ force  _ someone, it would have been a male  _ and _ another High Lord? Don’t you think that’s a bit more trouble than someone as lazy as I am would want to deal with?”

“Maybe. Who knows what you would do, Rhysand? Your ambition and lack of shame are both legendary.”

“... that’s a fair point.” Their voices were still low, but he could see Mor looking at him from where she stood speaking to the Adriatic princess, Cresseida. “But I would  _ never  _ hurt Tamlin.”

Kallias’s eyes went even colder, colorless, chips of ice set against white eyelashes and pale skin. “Rhysand, what did I  _ say  _ about treating me like I’m stupid? I’ve  _ seen _ his back.” He leaned in closer, a smile with no humor in it flickering across his face, “ _ My _ Court’s quarters were the ones closest to the room where you flogged him, daemati. Don’t pretend to me that you would not hurt him and enjoy it. We. Heard. You.”

“She  _ made me do that! _ ” His voice was louder than he intended, and he cleared his throat as a few other fae turned to look. He could still feel the whip in his hands, unable to put it down until he’d given the full thirty lashes she’d commanded. How his own body sang at every blow, at her command, desire twisted up in guilt and horror at what he had done. He could still see the bloody marks across Tamlin’s back where he lay, could hear every breathy tear-filled scream of   _ do it again, hit me again, yes, again. _

“Don’t  _ ever  _ suggest her will was the same as mine.” The room seemed suddenly dimmer than it had been before, as though the sun had begun to set even though it wasn’t even far past noon. “I have done things that no one could justify, and I won’t try to. But the things I was forced to do at her command…  _ I have never hurt Tamlin without my hand being forced.  _ And every single day under her command was  _ torture  _ for us both. So I’ll ask you to keep any suggestion otherwise to yourself _. _ ” 

Kallias did not speak, but the hostility in his face faded, replaced by something Rhys hated even more - pity.

He closed his eyes against the urge to say something awful just to get the sympathy off his face, and instead took a deep breath. “Look at me, Kallias.” They met eyes, and Rhys just shook his head, very slightly. “I did nothing to Tamlin’s mind I was not ordered to do by  _ her,  _ and this? This was not part of that. What we are… the Cauldron chose that, not me. I have my theories as to why, and none of them involve daemati power. Whether you like it or not, Tamlin and I are mates, and that will never change.”

Those cold eyes stayed on his for another couple of seconds, searching through them for any sign of dishonesty or a lie. Finally, Rhys saw him smile, faintly, and both men relaxed. “I’m not sure exactly why, High Lord - perhaps it’s only that Tamlin seems to see in you something the rest of us must be missing - but I am inclined to believe you.”

“I just have one of those faces,” Rhys said smoothly. 

“No,” Kallias replied, stepping away from him. “You don’t. Perhaps it’s merely my lingering gratitude for her death. I remember that it was by your hand.” He quirked a cold smile. “Quite literally.” Kallias went to greet Mor, all warmth and light for her, and Rhys made himself step forward through the doors after Tamlin, ignoring Mor’s curious gaze on his back. 

He’d expected some variation on this dislike - he’d largely earned it, after all, over his time as High Lord and then working for Amarantha - but he hadn’t expected to be accused of using daemati powers to make Tamlin  _ love him. _

He could see Tamlin sitting alone at Tarquin’s large meeting table in the war room, his eyes on the floor-to-ceiling windows that held a view of Adriata’s pastel beauty and the brilliant blue of the sea below. The sun’s light bouncing off the water was nearly blinding, and in this quiet, mostly empty room, Rhys could hear the rhythmic push-pull of the ocean, just faintly, above the cheerful chatter and sounds of the crowd below. Even in here, in this closed-off room, the air smelled of salt and the sea. The ocean was calm today, with hardly any waves to speak of.

Rhys flopped bonelessly in the seat next to him. Times like this he missed Cas and Az, who would have been right there with him cracking jokes or being generally intimidating. Instead… their ship had gone down. They might be on Lawless, or somewhere else entirely. The tattoo on his chest, evidence of the bargain they had once made to stay together, was still as strong as ever and so he knew both of them had survived. After that… He poured himself a glass of wine from one of the bottles on the table, sniffing it first just to be safe, and Tamlin blinked at him.

“That didn’t even occur to me,” He said, his voice soft and thoughtful.

“And _ that’s _ why you’ll get poisoned again next time and I won’t,” Rhys replied airily, drinking the whole thing in one long swallow and then pouring himself a second. 

“I like to hope you’d tell me not to drink it, too.” 

“Never can tell, with me,” Rhys said smoothly, turning to look at Tamlin. He was staring out the window, still, just looking down at the ocean where the sun glanced off it. 

“What did Kallias have to say?” Tamlin asked faintly. 

“Nothing important.” He finished the second glass, poured himself a third.

“I thought _ I  _ was the nervous one,” Tamlin said, pulling the glass away from him and sipping at it himself.

“I’m not nervous,” Rhys said, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. “I’m surrounded by assholes, but I’m not nervous.”

“He  _ did  _ say something, then.”

“Not exactly. I mean, yes, he did, but… Tamlin.”

“Yes?”

_ You’ve seen how broken I am. _

_ I told you, Rhys. We’re broken together. I know what’s in your head and you know what’s in mine. I’m not going anywhere.  _ Tamlin smiled, just a little, and reached over to put his hand over Rhys’s. _ What did he say to you? _

_ They think I forced you.  _ Rhys took his wine glass back from Tamlin, staring into it dully. He could still feel the echo of the disgust and anger he’d lit up with at the suggestion that he’d  _ wanted  _ to hurt Tamlin, that he would have created what they had on purpose out of cold ambition.  _ That we’re not mates, I just made you think that. How many of them do you think feel that way, if Kallias was willing to say it out loud to me? _

_ I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I know you didn’t, so the rest of them can go to hell. _

_ Now you sound like Cas. _

_ I’m not sure if that’s a compliment. We’re together, Rhys. I don’t give a damn what any of them think about what I have with you. _

Rhys finished his third glass of wine and looked into his empty cup, wondering how Tamlin could not care about this while still caring so deeply about his scars.

“You should probably slow down your drinking,” Tamlin said out loud. “We’re going to be here a while.”

“It’s just a meeting about Tarquin’s prison ship,” Rhys said, frowning. “Shouldn’t be all that long.”

“No it isn’t.” Tamlin’s green eyes slowly met his. “It’s not just about that at all.”

“Then what is it?”

“Something about the shipwreck,” Tamlin said softly. “I heard a couple of the guards along the wall talking on my way in here. Tarquin thinks it was targeted. The guards went quiet when they saw me, but…” He shrugged.  _ A hunter knows how not to be heard,  _ he sent down the bond.  _ They didn’t see me until I wanted them to. _

Rhys couldn’t stop his smile.  _ Here everyone’s accusing me of duplicity and it’s you they should be watching. _

_I ’m a shit liar, Nightmare, but you’d be surprised what you can learn without having to lie at all. _

_ I couldn’t do that. _

_ No. You like talking too much. _

He chuckled to himself.

“Something funny?” A familiar, always surprisingly deep and warm voice said from behind them, dripping with superiority.

Tamlin closed his eyes, a pained expression on his face. “Hello, Eris.” 


	11. Enter Eris Vanserra, High Lord of Autumn

Tamlin stood to meet the High Lord of the Autumn Court, letting the light shine out of his skin just a little bit, letting the scent of green leaves and a predator soak into the air around them. Rhys, meanwhile, leaned back in his chair and smirked. 

He waited until remaining seated became truly insulting, and only then got very, very slowly to his feet. 

Eris, impeccable as always in a brocaded vest over a plain shirt and perfectly tailored black pants, a bit of his coppery auburn hair falling in a perfect curl over one eye, only crooked one eyebrow. The air around him smelled like woodsmoke and cider and cinnamon mixed with cold nights and the slow decay of fallen leaves. There was a small, cold smile plastered on his face as he took one of Tamlin’s hands in both his own, leaning in slightly. “So good to have a moment to chat with you almost entirely in private, Tamlin. I was hoping to speak with my favorite _tool_ before the meeting started. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to give us a moment alone, Rhysand?”

“No, Eris,” Rhys said, just the two words, letting all his disdain and loathing drip through them. “Not today. I’m only barely inclined to let you have this conversation right in front of me.”

“Do you decide who he speaks to, now?” Eris asked, with the barest hint of an angry edge to his voice. The gold eyes narrowed. “Is that the sort of  _ mate _ you are?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Rhys said, a little too quickly. 

"I hope not." Eris's voice was cold. "Believe me, I have had my fill of those who take their mates and lock them away."

"I am not your father," Rhys replied, eyes narrowed. 

"No, but you don't deserve to-"

“It’s fine, Rhys,” Tamlin interrupted. “Eris and I have known each other a long time. I see no reason we can’t speak civilly to one another.”

Something was odd about the air around them all, but he couldn’t quite place it. Maybe just the general air of superiority around Eris poisoning everything else.

“We  _ have _ , haven’t we? For just  _ ages.  _ Since you were born, really.” Eris looked over at him, his smile actually widening, as he held onto Tamlin’s hand, letting the seconds tick by until the grip had truly gone on too long for comfort. He really did look like Lucien - both of them took after their mother, although Lucien had darker skin and a different shape to his mouth, different hair. But if you took Lucien, stole all his skin color, cut his hair short, removed every inch of good humor and kindness in him and replaced it with cruelty, Eris is what he would look like. 

“Let go of my hand.” Tamlin’s voice was still soft, but there was an waver there, and Rhys found his eyes wandering to some sort of plant that had suddenly  _ sprouted  _ next to a column behind them. Eris gripped him just a little harder. There was a pause, and then Tamlin suddenly jerked his hand back, face reddening. “What the fuck was that?”  

_ What?  _ Along the mating bond between them, Rhys felt Tamlin’s surge of discomfort and disgust.

"You used to like it when I did that," Eris said in something just short of a purr.

_ He just… he- _

“I was just checking to see if you were paying attention. Tamlin, you  _ know _ you don’t have to sit next to him. My mother could give you lessons on dealing with your  _ mate _ being ill-matched.”

“Rhys and I are _ perfectly _ matched,” Tamlin said, and gave Eris a smile that seemed more like baring his teeth. “We have so much in common. Both of us absolutely loathe you.”

Eris tsked, softly, something brightening in his eyes. “Temper temper, Tamlin…” Rhys had a crawling disgust at the idea that Eris was  _ enjoying  _ this. “I know you don’t really hate me. I did send you your Lucien, after all. And where would you be these days without him doing all the work for you?”

“Eris.” Rhys moved as though he would step between them, but Tamlin put out a hand to stop him and, very slightly, shook his head.  _ Let me do this. _

“I’ve always been grateful that I was able to save your brother’s life when _ you  _ couldn’t. You were so helpless. That had to hurt, having to come ask someone like  _ me _ to save him, after… how we were,” Tamlin replied coolly.

_ Eris did what? How you were? What does that mean? _

_ Not now. _

“You’ve  _ wounded me.  _ Here I - all of us - have been laboring under the impression you had become a tame dog, these days… just with a new master.”

Tamlin only lifted his chin a bit in response. “Why are you here, Eris?”

“I was called for this meeting, the same as the rest of you. Although unfortunately my entourage is a bit… limited, these days, since they’re basically all dead and my mother insists on grieving for that useless pack of mongrels. You have no idea how freeing it is, Tam, that I just… don’t have to think about whether or not one of my brothers is going to kill me this week. I just came with a couple of guards and my good intentions.”

“No. Why are you here talking to  _ me? _ ” Tamlin’s voice stayed level and even, but Rhys could feel his fraying nerves and a strange hint of fear along the mating bond and stepped slightly closer. Tamlin stood strong but Rhys could feel that he wanted to shake. “There is no love lost between us."

“Oh, it wasn't  _ lost _ .” Eris smirked, crossing his arms. “Perhaps I came for your scintillating conversational skills and impeccable manners?”

Tamlin raised an eyebrow. “I’m awful at conversation and I used to eat soup so loudly that Lucien had to leave the room. Try again.”

“I don’t know how Luce can stand it, living with such an absolute barbarian. Maybe I just wanted to see exactly how many angry faces your  _ mate _ makes at me before he explodes?” Eris turned his gaze on Rhys and, with that same cold smile on his face, slowly dropped one eyelid in a wink.

Rhys moved as if to step forward and Tamlin put his arm out again to stop him.  _ Let me handle this. _

_ Tell him to fuck off. _

_ No. _

The strange feeling in the room was getting stronger. He still couldn’t place it, but Tamlin and Eris didn’t seem to notice. There was a sense of something settling around them, like a fog.

“Now we’re getting closer, Eris. Why don’t you try one more time to be honest?” Rhys watched the sprout from earlier grow into a vine that curled around the column all the way up to the ceiling, leaves sprouting with tiny buds. It was behind Eris, and Tamlin didn’t seem to notice it. Roses began to open, one by one, from floor to ceiling, the same rust red as Eris’s hair. 

_ Your roses are growing again. Tarquin’s going to make you take that one home. _

The vine turned black and crumbled to dust, unseen.

Eris shook his head. “Oh, Tamlin, you and I both know  _ you’re  _ the only honest person standing in this room right now. Fine, I’ll admit it, I had a burst of what I think might be concern - but I suppose might have just been illness - and decided to follow it before my common sense overrode the urge.” 

“I doubt that,” Tamlin said dryly. 

“You can doubt all you like.” Eris shrugged. The malevolence dropped off of his face, and Rhys was startled to see something… genuine, there, if only for a moment. It wasn’ really worry, but a kind of fascinated interest, like a child watching a bird with an injured wing try to fly. “I wanted to see how you’re doing these days.”

“Why? You’ve never given a damn about me.”

“Haven’t I?” Eris was quiet for a moment, then smiled, a little ruefully. “I suppose I’ve earned that assumption. We are not in the habit of being good, in the Autumn Court, and it never came naturally for my brothers or I… save Lucien, I suppose. You’d think he’d come from a different father entirely, some days... I don't suppose I ever liked you for the reasons you might have hoped for. I did try. I gave you free run of our hunting grounds when you wanted to get yourself and  _ your Night Court friend  _ away from your brothers-”

“Which I  _ appreciate _ , but that doesn’t mean-”

“I was the first to send my condolences after the murder of your parents… your  _ entire family _ .” Eris’s eyes flicked to meet Rhys’s and he saw an unguarded, coldly calculating anger blazing in the gold and actually stepped back under its weight. “I offered the help of my own personal guard to hunt down the Night Lord who survived it.”

“I know you did,” Tamlin said quietly. “I did not want to hunt him down.”

“I know. You were hopeless for him, even after what he did. I knew you would be.”

“Eris… ”

“You stayed with me for the first month while you entered mourning. I was the one who ordered all your mourning clothes when there was no one else to do it and you had no  _ clue  _ what came next, no one had ever bothered to teach you. I was the one who let you cry in the middle of the night-"

" _ Made _ me cry, more like," Tamlin muttered, but his face went red.

"Oh, you liked it. No one stood by you then, but I did.” Eris reached out and grabbed Tamlin by the shoulders. “Did you mourn your family, Tamlin, or were you just mourning losing  _ him? _ ” 

“I mourned them,” Tamlin said, but something in his voice had changed. “I told you I was grateful. You made me tell you I was grateful.”

“I didn't  _ make _ you do a damn thing. I sent my brother to you when your court  _ abandoned you _ . I sent my littlest brother, the  _ only one who mattered,  _ to you because I trusted you would take care of him for me and make sure he didn’t lose the good in him and turn into a cold bastard like the rest of us.  And you think I  _ hate you? _ ” Eris snorted derisively. “You and my brother have both never listened to me at all. Perhaps that’s why you can’t seem to stop fucking yourselves up, or letting others do it for you. Although so far you don’t seem inclined to let  _ me  _ fuck you up. Well, not  _ anymore _ ."

“Eris. I don’t want to have this conversation right now-”

“What, not in front of  _ him? _ ” Eris laughed coldly. “Why not? Look at how far we’ve come, Tam. I’m finally the High Lord and you’re _ fucking _ Rhys. Or he’s fucking _ you _ , anyway. I suppose we’ve both fulfilled the dreams of our younger selves.”

_ Why does he know about- _

_ He’s very good at getting me drunk. _

_ What happened? _

_ I don’t ask to see everything that ever happened in  _ your  _ head.  _

Outwardly, Tamlin only looked away. “We’re done, Eris.”

“No, Tam. We’re not.” Eris laughed. The sound, coming from him, was dry and mostly humorless, as though even laughter was just a weapon to be wielded. “I should stop asking you for gratitude, though. I should be the one thanking _ you  _ properly for all the  _ help  _ you’ve given me, getting everyone else out of my way. I want you to rest assured, my old friend… I am  _ utterly grateful  _ for your assistance with well...” Eris waggled the fingers on one hand in a gesture that could have meant just about anything, but Rhys knew he was thinking about claws and flowers blooming in the dark Under the Mountain, the bit of blood and gore that had been everything left of Eris’s brothers.

There was no one Eris didn’t see as another pawn on a chessboard, but it burned Rhys to know  _ his  _ mate had been part of the game.

“Your gratitude means less than nothing, ‘Ris, it always has. I’m going to sit back down and drink my wine,” Tamlin muttered, starting to turn away, his face pale.

“Wait.” Eris grabbed Tamlin by the upper arm, and slowly, Tamlin turned those green eyes back on him. “The shirt is an interesting choice. Are you trying to send a message,  _ Tam _ ?”

“It’s just a shirt.” 

“Is it?” Eris’s voice dropped, slightly, to something just above a whisper. He let go of Tamlin’s arm but reached out, letting a fingertip trail along the line where fabric met skin, over his collarbone and up to his shoulder, making sure it ran over every single scar on the way. His eyebrows knitted together, in concentration. Tamlin’s jaw tightened as he looked away, back to the view of the sea, and his breathing quickened.

“Eris,” Rhys said softly in warning, but his hands stayed frozen at his sides. _Why can't I move?_ Tamlin only shook his head at him, faintly.

_ Don’t. _

_ Why not? _

Tamlin did not answer. There was a strange, hard-to-read feeling along the bond, and Rhys realized that whatever his internal response to being touched by Eris was, Tamlin was hiding it from him. Shielding himself. Putting up a wall Rhys would have to tear down, knowing damn well that he wouldn’t. 

_ Tell him to get his hand off of you,  _ Rhys said - or thought he said -  a spike of jealousy clouding his mind. To his dismay, Tamlin didn’t say anything. He just… stood there. His expression was slightly distant, a little anxious.

There was something off about Eris, about this whole conversation, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, and he couldn’t seem to step in and end it.

“What do you want to tell us?” Eris asked, softly, his eyes focused on the pattern of scars, following their lines. “Do you want us to pity you? Do you want us to  _ feel guilty,  _ Tamlin?” 

“I don’t want  _ you _ to feel anything about me.”

“You had it coming, and you’re better off for it.” Eris traced a spiral of scars on the side of Tamlin’s neck and then back down to his collarbone. His gold eyes were fixed on the spiral she had carved into Tamlin’s left cheek, along the bone just below his eye. “By the Cauldron, what a work of fucking  _ art  _ she made of you.” A shiver went through Tamlin and came right down the mating bond, unwanted, unbidden.

_ Tamlin, tell him to fuck off. _

_ No. _

_ Why not?  _ The jealousy again, worse than it had ever been Under the Mountain, and his mental voice was nearly a childish whine. With Amarantha they had been forced to submit to her, jealousy had always been tinged with understanding that there wasn’t any other way.  _ I want him to stop touching you. _

_ It might as well start with him. _

Eris picked an invisible speck of dust off Tamlin’s shoulder, although to Rhys it looked like just another way to touch a scar. “Do you still swim, Tamlin? Remember how we used to swim for hours? I bet you can’t even bear to, these days. I’ve heard stories about that  _ back _ of yours.” He looked over at Rhys, one eyebrow raising, and there it was again - that cold, thoughtful hostility turned directly on Rhys. “ _ You  _ were quite the artist when it came to Tamlin, too, I hear. Or rather,  _ everyone heard _ .”

Rhys swallowed against the familiar spike of guilt. Why did everyone feel the need to bring that up today?

_ Don’t, Rhys. She gave you an order. You had to obey. _

_ If we were in any court that did not belong to one of the few High Lords I actually respect, I’d tear Eris’s throat out for this. _

_ Tarquin specifically said not to murder anyone while we’re here, and Mor made it clear that rule was aimed at us. Mostly you. _

_ Take down your shields, Tam. _

_ It’s too dark in here. _

Tamlin reached up and pushed Eris’s hand away. “I think you just want to see me shirtless,” Tamlin said mildly, straightening his posture unconsciously, brushing out a wrinkle on his shirt. Rhys knew the look on his face; Tamlin, watching himself from somewhere far away, holding onto his mind with white knuckles and a distant expression. “Sure took you a long time to work yourself up to ask, didn’t it?”

Eris only smirked. “Oh, Tam. Once you’ve seen someone wearing  _ nothing,  _ the matter of a shirt is a very small thing indeed. That’s old news. The only person who doesn’t know about  _ me  _ by now is probably my mother, and only because she’s in very, very deep denial about it. Even Father knew - and tore apart the first person he found out about who didn’t have  _ status  _ and  _ connections  _ as protection. If you think insinuations now are going to bother me-”

“I’m not _ insinuating _ anything,” Tamlin said softly. “I don’t have to. It happened. I was there for it. And I’d appreciate it if you kept your hands off me from now on.”

“Knock it off, Eris,” Rhys snapped. 

Eris hesitated, licking his lips, his eyes glancing to Rhys, who did not bother to hide the hostility or even pretend at politeness any longer, then back to Tamlin. He smiled, but the moment was gone, and the smile seemed thin and stretched. The odd fog that had seemed to weigh them all down seemed to be lifting. “There’s no shame in admitting that I’m appreciating the show. Helion’s going to _ love _ the novelty on display here.”

_ He’s trying to get a reaction,  _ Rhys realized.  _ There's some kind of response he's looking to provoke. Tamlin’s not giving it to him, at least not the kind of reaction he expected. _

“I don’t give a fuck what Helion loves,” Tamlin said, and his voice shook, just slightly. Eris reached out again and Tamlin grabbed him by his wrist, holding on tightly enough that Rhys could see Eris’s gold eyes narrow against the pain. “I know you think I owe you this because you sent Lucien to me, but I don’t. I owe you nothing.”

“You’re so different now,” Eris said softly, sounding genuinely impressed, pulling his hand back, wincing and rubbing at a wrist that had already gone red with Tamlin’s grip. “Quieter. More thoughtful. Intense.  _ I like it _ . So  _ do _ you take orders from Rhys now? Does he tell you what to do  _ in  _ the bedroom or just out of it?”

Tamlin’s face paled and the air around them seemed suddenly thinner. Rhys went to take a deep breath and felt himself struggle, just a little, to get enough oxygen.  _ Spring, you have to let the air go _ . “I think you’ll find that that’s none of your business,” Tamlin said firmly. “I take orders from no one.”

Eris tilted his head. “Pity. You’ve never been any good at coming up with an idea on your own. Rhys at least seems to have an imagination the rest of us lack.” He looked over at Rhys, as though just now remembering he was there. “ _ You  _ never struck me as the type to enjoy someone else’s secondhand goods, Rhysand.” His eyes ran over Tamlin’s scars with disdain. “I certainly wouldn’t. I suppose Tamlin should thank his lucky stars that you’re so open to those already damaged and absolutely ravaged by someone else.” He looked Rhys right in the eyes. “ _ I _ have higher  _ standards _ for my lovers. Your cousin might recall.”

Whatever Tamlin had been preparing himself for, whatever he was hoping to get out of this, that had taken it too far. And Rhys wasn’t particularly interested in standing by any longer, no matter what Tamlin had asked before.

Rhys was startled to discover he had grabbed Eris around the throat without realizing it, and after a second only tightened his grip. “Go fuck yourself,” Rhys said, in the quietest voice he could manage. “Or I’ll go into your head and ensure you do so with a rusty knife. It could take hours or days until you die. From the internal bleeding or the resulting infection, I don’t really care which.”

“Threatening me, daemati?” Eris’s voice was thin and he smiled, as though the three of them were in on some exceptionally funny joke. “That’s not going to make our illustrious host very happy, is it?”

“Speak to me or my mate like that again - bring up what you and your pig brothers did to my cousin - and I will break Tarquin’s hospitality laws and take whatever punishment he metes out. It’d be worth it to wipe that smirk off your weasel face for good.” He let go, and Eris stumbled back, putting a hand up to his neck, eyes narrowed.

“I never touched her. She was an innocent person and she would have ended up just like Mother if I’d married her. I… I couldn’t be responsible for doing to someone else what my father did to my mother. I may be a two-faced monster, Rhysand… and I am  _ definitely _ a monster… but I never touched her. Do you genuinely think I cared that she slept with your constantly pissed-off brother? If I'd known  _ that _ was her plan, I'd have offered to do so myself and save her the trouble. Unfortunately,  _ my _ brothers discovered her packing her things to run away before she could be safely escorted off the grounds. Ask your shadowsinger, assuming you ever see him again, who told him where he could find her.”

“I have no reason to believe any of that is true,” Rhys said, his voice quiet and even. “And even if it was, that still leaves you a coward who left a lady to suffer in order to save his own skin. You’re a shit on a good day and worse than that on a bad one. Get the fuck away from us.”

“ _ Now  _ who has a temper? Tsk. Wear a higher-necked shirt next time if you don’t want me to look, Tam, hm?” Eris moved to walk away, but as he passed Tamlin, he stopped and leaned in until Tamlin stepped back, bumping into the chair he’d been sitting in, staring down at the floor. Eris leaned over, whispering into his ear, and Rhys saw Tamlin shudder, just slightly. "You're fucking gorgeous, Tamlin, and I miss you trying to destroy yourself with me. You were losing this game to me long before your  _ mate  _ came into the picture, and trust me, we haven't stopped playing yet.” He gently patted Tamlin on the scarred side of his face and looked the two of them over one more time, a smile playing across his lips. “If you ever want to try something  _ new _ , Rhys, let me know. I'm up for it. Get Tamlin drunk enough and you might be surprised what he'll do for the two of us."

“Please don’t make me bring the rusty knife up again,” Rhys said with quiet intensity.

“Fair enough. Can’t blame a fae for trying. Will my brother be joining you today?”

“Also none of your fucking business,” Tamlin said through gritted teeth.

“That’s a yes, then.” Eris walked away with the heels of his shoes clicking audibly along the warm tile floor. “Perhaps I’ll make it a point to speak with him privately, too. Haven’t seen my littlest brother since Amarantha was still alive, after all…” 

Once he was gone, Rhys had no useful place to put his anger. Instead he just put a hand up over his eyes, rage a constant beat alongside his heart. “Tamlin, what was Eris talking about?"

Tamlin took a deep breath. "When we were younger…" There was a pause as he gathered his thoughts, sitting slowly back down at the table. Finally, he closed his eyes, reached out and grabbed the mostly-empty wine bottle without looking, and drank everything left inside of it.

“Now who’s drinking too much too early?” Rhys asked, startled.

“Me.” Tamlin leaned forward, head in his hands. 

_ Tamlin? _

_ I shouldn’t have come here.  _

_ Do you want to leave? We can just go. _

_ No. I can’t walk out now. I can’t. They’ll all see me as weak. _

_ Can you lower your shields? I can help- _

_ I told you. It’s too dark in here. _

_ Tamlin, you know I don’t care about that. It’s dark in here, too. _

_ Am I awake, Rhys? If this is another nightmare, am I going to wake up? _

_ Tamlin?  _ Rhys blinked.

“Never mind,” Tamlin said out loud, shaking himself like a dog shaking off water. “Let’s just get through this. Drink another bottle with me before they come in.”


	12. Drown

The war room had not been anyone’s expectations for the meeting place, which became clear as each High Lord entered with his entourage, looking around uneasily. Despite the floor-to-ceiling window that gave such an enviable view of the sea, the room itself was stark and sparsely decorated. The huge table, painted with a map of Prythian, was spread with plenty to drink, but it was roughly hewn and had tiny knicks in the wood where, Tamlin thought, Tarquin or Nostrus or some ancient High Lord had jammed pins right into the wood to mark a location. He wondered idly if those knicks had been in this table since the war to free the mortals.

There were enough chairs for each High Lord to have one person beside him and one or two behind. Only Eris sat alone, directly across from Tamlin, those gold eyes watching him with absolute focus. It made him feel uneasy, like prey in the hunter’s gaze, like a deer trying to decide whether to flash a white tail and run. Eris had left for a while before the meeting, claiming he had to speak with someone, and when he’d come back in, something had been… different.

No, the whole damn _thing_ had been different. Eris had always been untrustworthy and venomous, but something was different. Something was _wrong._

_Stop it. You haven’t had a conversation that didn’t involve threatening each other since a decade after the deaths. Even then, it was just when I didn’t know what else to do, when it was all still new. He used me to kill his brothers. I don’t know anything about him at all any longer._

Lucien, who sat just to Tamlin’s left, was glowering at his only remaining brother, hand on his sword. Tamlin wondered what the sword was saying to him, and if he should have warned _Lucien_ not to commit murder today, not Rhys. 

The High Lord of Night was utterly unruffled and a perfectly calm presence now where he sat to Tamlin’s right. He was watching everyone with his chin slightly raised, hands folded with the bandaged one on top, as though Rhys stared at an entire table full of insects beneath his notice.

Tamlin knew better - he could feel that Rhys was tense right down the mating bond, but you’d never have known it from his casually relaxed posture. The mask he’d worn for so long in front of the others that he didn’t seem to know how to let it drop, let them all see who he really was when he wasn’t trying to be strong.

“Thank you all for coming,” Tarquin spoke softly where he stood at the head of the table, but his voice was still perfectly pitched to carry clearly to everyone in the room. The High Lord of Summer wore uncharacteristically dark clothing today, a faded, dusty navy shirt and pants with white threading throughout. It made his dark skin seem even darker, especially with his white hair hanging loosely around his shoulders in a perfect curtain. Next to him sat Cresseida, as the Princess of Adriata. Tamlin had been watching her off and on since she’d come in, wondering at the oddly sharp, unhappy look on her face. Maybe she’d known someone on the ship?

“I know some of you expressed confusion as to why I would ask for such a last-minute meeting for all High Lords over something as simple as a shipwreck with a few prisoners on board.” Tarquin sat down, a little limply, in his chair, glancing sidelong at Varian, who stood off to the side by a column, hands behind his back, spine straight. Amren, standing next to him, barely came up to his shoulders and was slouched against the column with a glass of what probably wasn’t wine, looking singularly uninterested in everything around her. Tamlin tried not to catch her eyes; although Amren had been whatever passed for polite for someone like her since the end of the fall of Velaris, he could see that whatever she was, she was older than he, and more powerful, and had looked on things that could die as prey to be destroyed and discarded once and could easily do so again.

“Indeed. To be honest, I wasn’t particularly interested in whether or not the ship made it to its destination,” Helion said lazily, eyes half-closed, looking for all the world like a lion sleeping in the sun. “I expressly sent Paivan and Valo away with firm hopes to never see them again.”

That indolence was an illusion, and everyone here knew it. Helion had been one of the harshest against the King of Hybern’s armies, during the war. The blazing light in him was hidden, but it was there to be seen if you knew how to look.

“So you knew your prisoners,” Thesan said thoughtfully. “I knew nothing about mine, beyond the guardsman’s recommendations that he be exiled.” The High Lord of Dawn sat alone, with the Captain of his Guard, a Peregryn he had long ago taken as a lover, standing just behind him, expressionless. He’d never been one to bring others with him; Thesan was self-contained. He ruled his court by himself, with no second- or third-in-command, no council of advisors. Just Thesan’s word and his alone, his careful and deliberate decisions. No one but the Peregryn seemed to understand what went on inside his head.  “Perhaps you’re far _too familiar_ with them, one way or another.”

Helion smirked. “I am _intimately familiar_ with Paivan and Valo, yes. Or I was, several times, shortly before they burned twenty irreplaceable books on Prythian history in my library in a fit of pique and then claimed they had no memory of doing it. Would you like me to explain exactly _how_ I was familiar with them?”

“Is there any way at all for us to stop you?” Kallias asked, rolling his eyes. Viviane, sitting to his right, muffled a laugh behind one hand, cleared her throat, and made a show of carefully smoothing invisible wrinkles out of her long-sleeved, high-necked blue dress. Kallias leaned over and took her hand, kissing the back of it briefly. 

 _New mates,_ Tamlin thought with a sort of amused annoyance, and then remembered that technically he and Rhys were new mates, too.

“You know, you’re right, there isn’t,” Helion said cheerfully. As he opened his mouth to continue, Tamlin interrupted him. 

“I deeply doubt whatever you’re about to say is relevant to either the shipwreck or why they were exiled in the first plac.,” Tamlin glared daggers at the tabletop, not quite able to hide the red in his face. “They were fae and deserve their dignity not to be shredded for your amusement. So keep it to yourself.”

_Are you embarrassed, Tamlin?_

_Amarantha used to talk about me like this and make me listen to her courtiers laugh. I don’t want to listen to anyone be talked about like this any longer._

Helion raised one eyebrow. “I _like_ this new Tamlin. You’re a good influence, Rhysand.”

“I don’t think I could be any more the _opposite_ of a good influence,” Rhys said, but he actually laughed, and some of the tension in the room broke.

“Please, High Lords,” Tarquin said, an edge of warning to his voice. I would be thrilled if we could get further into this meeting than ten minutes before it devolves into insults and infighting and endless bedroom talk. Give me at least _twenty_ minutes before you begin picking at each other like hens fighting over feed.”

“Nonsense. A fight might be entertaining,” Eris said, a hint of a snake in his voice, never looking away from Tamlin. “But who would be the feed? Whoever would we fight over? Tamlin, you’re used to being sandwiched between two ends, why don’t you advise us?”

“Mother’s _hands_ , Eris,” Helion said, looking impressed. “You’re in rare form today.”

Tamlin could see, from the corner of his eye, Mor reach over to put a calming hand on Rhys’s arm. His calm, careless expression did not change, but his grip on his wine glass tightened.

Tarquin sighed. “You’re all hopeless. Eris, you’ll hold your tongue, that was vulgar.”

“Oh, but _Helion_ is the paragon of polite conversation,” Eris said, rolling his eyes. Helion sat back and smiled, flashing white teeth in his dark-skinned face.

“Back to the matter at hand,” Tarquin said in the voice of a man who has just about had it with all this nonsense. “The identities of the prisoners are your own business and I do not believe they are relevant to what occurred. It’s true that the ship went down with all hands and was attacked. At first, we thought by pirates. It happens often enough, the seas are dangerous places, although we’ve never had a prison ship attacked before. There was… something unusual about this. Something… a bit more serious than a simple shipwreck.” Tarquin and Varian shared another look. Varian slowly nodded his head.

Lucien tapped a finger on Tamlin’s left leg, hard. His face remained empty but for a vague resentment directed at Eris, who continued to smile coldly back. Tamlin shifted in his seat, looking down as though he were doing so naturally, to see Lucien pointing to the head of the table. Tamlin looked, making sure to make it look like he was just looking at Tarquin.

Cresseida was watching Varian, her mouth a thin, angry line, as her brother ignored her entirely.

 _Interesting._ Rhys must have noticed, too. His voice held curiosity and a little concern. _Whatever we’re about to learn, Cres doesn’t want us to know it._

_Oh, she’s Cres, is she?_

_H_ _igh Lords_ are _a jealous lot,_ Rhys said, a smile playing across his face as he kept his eyes on Tarquin. _I’ll take this as a sign that you’re no better than the rest of us, Tam._

“At first,” Tarquin said, “We really did think it could have been pirates. Maybe they were desperate for provisions, or had some other pressing need that made a prison ship a viable option for them. It wouldn’t have been the most unusual thing in the world. However, we intercepted something that suggests that the attack was targeted and intended to take out someone… specific… and may only be the beginning of a larger coordinated effort.”

Rhys did not so much as twitch, but Tamlin knew he was thinking of the tattoo on his chest, the bargain he’d once made with Azriel and Cas to stick together forever. That they could have been the target, simply for being what they were to him. They were alive, wherever they were right now. There was a sense of a familiar emotion down the mating bond, the damage in Amarantha’s lovers that never quite left them.

_Don’t feel guilty. This is not your fault, Rhys. It’s Am-... it’s hers. No more self-hatred._

_Tell that to yourself._

_I’m trying._ He could hear her laughing, though, laughing at the fact that even dead she could tear them up inside like this.

“Varian, if you will?” Tarquin gestured to the captain of his armies, who stepped forward. Varian glanced back over his shoulder at Amren, who smiled briefly at him with the cup of what might have passed for a thick, dark wine still at her lips. 

Varian held out one hand, calling up a chiming wisplight that seemed almost to bounce around, as if begging everyone nearby to follow it. Tamlin narrowed his eyes, watching as the wisp leapt playfully to the center of the table, where it came to a rest.

 “Show us your message,” Varian commanded.

The wisp chimed a cheerful assent, and then they could hear the sounds of a swordfight, shouting men passing by as blurs in the background, booming cannons close by. There was a horrible impact, and the face that swam up into view was trying desperately to keep its balance. 

“ _This wasn’t part of the plan!_ ” The male in the wisplight’s vision shouted. The High Lords around the table leaned forward almost as one. The man in the wisplight had sweaty, curly hair that stuck down to his scalp, a blue stone in a piercing above his eye. A cut across his forehead was bleeding and looked fresh. Tamlin blinked. It was the captain of the prison ship. “ _I was just supposed to make sure_ he _got his ass back to Lawless with the Illyrians! If I make it out of this, you’ll pay. I hope you don’t fuck over the partners for the courts like you did me. They should be moving on their targets anyway._ ” There was another howling whistle, an impact that even the wisplight shook with, and the male fell to the ground, still snarling into the wisplight. “ _Guess you get what you wanted.. All those prisoners are gonna drown, down there,_ him _included; I left the little shits locked up, just to make sure this ends here. Erosyn will go down, too, you know.”_

Tamlin happened to be looking at Thesan, and saw his Peregryn consort’s face go suddenly white.

 _“When the Night Lord finds out you drowned those two Illyrians - and he_ will _find out - you better pray to the Cauldron and the Mother and whatever other gods you can think of that that cold fucking bastard never finds you. I’ve seen what he does when someone fucks with his things. May I see you in hell so I can beat the shit out of you for taking down my sh-”_ The sound of a close-by shout, the unmistakable sound of a sword being forced into flesh, and the wisplight’s message was gone.

Varian took back the wisplight, standing at the edge of the table, looking at each of them in turn. His voice was deep and melodic, calm and with casual authority. “So, you see why we believe pirates were not involved. This was clearly planned, and the mention of the courts makes me believe attacks may become more direct in the future.” His eyes went to the bandage still visible on Rhys's hand. "Or perhaps have already become direct."

Tamlin moved his hand, just slightly, over Rhys’s, without taking his eyes off of Varian or the wisplight. _So the target of the attack wasn’t them at all. Also, what did you do to make him call you a snake?_

_I have no idea. I’ve never seen that fae before in my life, at least not before they put my brothers on his ship._

_Rhys, you need to do something about your reputation. You don’t_ have _to act the bastard all the time._

 _Don’t I? If Cas was here, he’d be pissed that he_ wasn’t _important enough to be the target._

_Do you think the ship picked them up and that’s why they’re still alive?_

_I don’t know._

“As you can see, the target of the attack goes unnamed, but there is mention of someone named Erosyn.” Varian looked carefully at each of them in turn, but no one’s expression changed. “There was no Erosyn listed as part of the crew, and none listed in the prisoner manifest, either. Which means the captain, who you saw there, brought this Erosyn on board in secret. This person - mortal or fae, whatever he might be - had reason to keep who he was hidden even from the crew.”

Behind Thesan, his Peregryn lover and the captain of his armies stepped forward. He was a delicately-featured male like all the Peregryns, but for his unusually light, wispy blonde hair. He held his colorful wings folded carefully against his back, and a faint, subtle expression of worry on his face. “I know who Erosyn is.”

Thesan sat back, even his usually well-controlled perfect calm face unable to hide his surprise, turning to look up at him. “Do you?” He asked, in his gentle, quiet voice. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d know someone on a prison ship, Syvet.”

“Not a prisoner, my lord,” Syvet said smoothly, looking back up at the rest of them. “Erosyn is the name of a former lieutenant in the aerial legion that serves the Dawn Court.”

“And you believe it to be the same fae?” Tarquin raised his eyebrows.

“I know it’s the same,” Syvet said very quietly. “I know it’s him.”

“Are you responsible for his presence on board that ship?” Kallias asked, leaning to the side, looking at the Peregryn with new interest. “Wouldn’t that be quite the development, considering your race's reputation as perhaps the most law-abiding fae to ever exist? A Peregryn smuggled on a prison ship, no records, where he isn’t supposed to be… that’s not something I’ve ever thought you capable of.” His glacial eyes went to Thesan and than back to Syvet. “Either of you.”

“Is Thesan finally going to actually do something _interesting?_ ” Helion asked no one in particular. The room brightened around them all as the sun seemed to shine right into the room, warming it with a golden light. “Cauldron, I suppose _anything_ can happen now. Maybe Tamlin will pull that stick out of his arse, too, and give us _all_ a good shock.”

“Oh, is it a stick now?” Eris asked airily, and Tamlin shot him a snarl. He put his hands up in a ‘don’t look at me, I’m innocent’ gesture. “We were _all_ thinking it.”

“We absolutely were not,” Kallias said icily.

"Innocent lambs, us," Viviane said brightly next to him. The two of them smiled at each other.

“I mean, _I_ was,” Helion offered. “And so was Tarquin, based on the color his face just turned.”

“No,” Syvet replied without turning his head. “Unfortunately for your hopes, Helion, not only did Thesan and I have nothing to do with any of it, Erosyn actually went _missing_ about a decade… maybe twelve years ago. He was involved in… a mission undertaken by the Dawn Court. He did not return from it. The last anyone heard of him was a single message I received about two years and seven months ago.”

"What message?" Thesan was clearly baffled. "I never saw-"

"It wasn't for your eyes." Syvet's voice was low. 

“You never told me about any of this,” Thesan murmured, a note of reproach in his voice. “That a member of your legion went missing on that mission. I should have been kept abreast of any developments like that. What was his message?"

“Irrelevant.” Syvet had an edge to his own usually smooth voice. "It was meant only for me."

“It seems pretty relevant to me.” Thesan’s voice had lost its own eternal calm, gone ragged and angry. “You are my consort."

"But I am not your creature."

"It was not your call to make.”

“It _is_ my call, Thesan. The circumstances of Erosyn’s disappearance were… unique. They did not require your attention or your… consequences. Neither did the last message.”

“Were you _protecting him?_ ” Thesan finally turned in his chair to look Syvet in the eyes, and there was a moment of hostile silence as the two stared each other down. The others sat in stunned silence. None of them had ever seen Syvet so much as speak a whisper of dissent in public before, let alone openly fight with Thesan. “From _me?_ ”

“Yes.” Syvet’s voice was just above an angry whisper, and the feathers on his wings seemed to fluff out, just slightly, seeming suddenly larger. He looked around at the others staring, and colored slightly. “I could not trust you then, Thesan. You know damn well why I could not trust you. Even aside from that-”

“You Cauldron-damned _bird_ ,” Thesan snarled, his composure breaking totally. He pushed himself to his feet and leaned in so close to Syvet’s face they could have kissed, but written across his expression was a cold rage. Tamlin felt suddenly short of breath. Everything felt wrong… false. An artifice, unreal, like a dream he was having. “We were all just doing what we had to do to placate her and you _know it._ If you tried to undermine me-”

“What did you do to placate her?” The voice was faint and far away and it actually took Tamlin a second to realize _he_ was the one asking the question. “Thesan? What was this mission? What did this… Erosyn go missing _doing?_ ” He swallowed, hard, pushing his chair back and moving to his feet. “What did you do to placate Amarantha?”

 _Am I even here? Am I asleep?_ His vision went white around the edges, as though the dream were beginning to bleed away. He clung to it desperately, trying to push the white back, trying to force himself to believe he was _here._

“I’ll tell you what he did,” Syvet said quietly and evenly. “What _we did._ Erosyn went missing trying to undo something Thesan did for her. Thesan was asked to attack a temple and steal-”

“You will silence yourself,” Thesan hissed, an inch from Syvet’s face. “Say one more word and forfeit your position in the Dawn Court and go into exile yourself. Don’t push me, Syvet, I love you but I won’t be undermined.”

“Steal what?” Tamlin asked, his lips barely moving.

Thesan and Syvet glared at each other, and finally the Peregryn looked away. “Ask my lord,” Syvet said tightly. “Ask him what he was getting for her. Then tell me that sending Erosyn to undo it was the wrong thing to do.”

“I know what you were trying to steal for her,” Kallias said tightly. “Because she tried to force me to steal one of the pieces, too.”

“Pieces of _what?_ ” Rhys looked back and forth, watching their eyes cut away from him. “What were you trying to steal for her?” 

 _I know what,_ Tamlin thought. He knew exactly what they’d been stealing from the temples. He had a childhood friend who’d grown up to become a priestess who did nothing _but_ brag about what the temples had been entrusted with.

“Pieces of the Cauldron,” Thesan said a little heavily. “I _did_ steal a piece of the Cauldron for her. Syvet’s intervention failed, if that’s what it was, but the piece went missing after Amarantha’s death and she was never able to obtain the others.”

“She would have remade the world,” Tamlin said thinly, weakly. “You would have helped her make herself eternal.”

_Why does this feel false?_

“You see that I did the right thing,” Syvet said, to them and to Thesan it seemed, leaning in slightly, eyes wide and intense. “Even if it didn’t work. You see that I needed Erosyn to get it back and hide it. He went missing when the mission failed - he was… abducted, I guess - and he’s never been seen again. Even that last message… it didn't sound like him at all.”

“It was not your call to make,” Thesan snapped. “No matter how you felt about it. I am your _lord._ You should have obeyed me.”

"With all due _respect_ to you as my lord and my love,” Syvet snapped right back, “It _was_ my call and you are free to dismiss me from your service if you think it wasn’t.”

“Well, well, well. What _have_ we here?” That was Eris, who never took his eyes off Lucien, Tamlin, and Rhys, even as he addressed the larger group. “A lover’s quarrel right here during a High Lords’ meeting? Thesan taking on acts of villainy and sending away his prize aerials? Will wonders never cease?”

“We’re not fighting,” Thesan said through gritted teeth, his rich brown eyes as cold as empty fields in midwinter. “And I am not a villain, simply a pragmatist. All of you did your parts, too. No one here went unmarked by her reign. You are dismissed, Syvet.”

“My Lord, I-” Syvet’s face paled, and he looked at Thesan as though he’d been struck. “You’re not really sending me away? Thesan- my love-”

“Not from my service, Syvet. Just from this meeting. I. Said. Dismissed.” Thesan turned away from his Peregryn lover, instead fixing his gaze on the floor-to-ceiling window and its beautiful view of the sea. He hesitated, then said over his shoulder in a voice that was softer and a little sweeter, “Wait for me in my rooms, please. We’ll talk about this more when I return. I still want you with me, Syv, you know I love you.”

Syvet stood for a second, mouth open as though he would speak, and then he bowed and backed away. He said something to another one of the Peregryn on his way out, who stepped up to take his place with a nod. He left with his wings curled tightly against his back, the feathers fluffed and shaking with agitation. 

“Thesan-” Tamlin started to speak, wanting only to ask, _this is real, isn’t it? I’m really here?_

“Leave it, Tamlin.” Thesan sighed, looking over at him. Tamlin could read the expression there, the way Thesan’s eyes raked over the scars he’d left visible to them all. _Why had he done that?_ “It will be fine. I will speak to him and rectify this once we are finished here.” The shirt had been a mistake. He’d wanted them to see but he hadn’t expected to feel the weight of their eyes so heavily.

The look on Thesan’s face said, _I feel sorry for you._

He couldn’t breathe. He had to force shallow breaths, trying to keep them silent so Rhys wouldn’t realize it, putting up shields over his mind as best he could, his left hand gripping the arm of his chair.

The white at the edges was creeping back in, a heavy weight pressing him down. He’d felt like this before; when they’d first saved Velaris, and he’d stood in Rhys’s townhouse feeling unreal. He looked down at his hands. Was he really here? Was he just sleeping? He’d had nightmares like this before, Under the Mountain, nightmares that started out being dreams that he was free and ended when all of it melted away to reveal...

 _Oh, Cauldron, what if this is just another nightmare? What if I never left her?_ He swallowed against the pressure and surreality and when he looked up, it was Eris whose eyes he met first. There was something in those eyes, behind the coldness, a sense of panic and worry that mirrored his own.

Eris slowly mouthed, _I’m sorry._

Then, just as quickly as he’d seen it, all that concern slid right off Eris’s face and was replaced by a slow, terrible smile. “Tamlin,” Eris said softly, “are you _feeling_ quite all right?”

He couldn't breathe. 

“You seem to have gone a bit pale.” Eris tilted his head, resting it on his fingers, watching Tamlin intently. “It makes your scars stand out when you do that, you know. Perhaps you need to step outside and take some air? Or do you feel better in the dark, these days? Underground maybe?”

“Fuck you,” Tamlin tried to say, but all that came out was a strained whisper.

“ _Hello, darling,_ ” He could feel her hand resting on his shoulder, her breath in his ear, the soft pressure of a rounded breast against his arm, the way she would lean over and whisper some bit of poison whenever he smiled too much or too happily. " _Did you miss me?_ " She'd run her hands down his back and remind him that he belonged to her-

 Tamlin jerked away, shoving his chair back, stumbling to his feet. “Don’t _touch_ me, Amarantha!"

The room went silent. Rhys sat with his hand still out, frozen.

"What?" His mate's lips barely moved.

_I shouldn’t have come here._

There was a circle of eyes and all of them were on him now, except for Kallias, whose furious ice-chip gaze was on Rhys. The rest of them were staring at him, at his scars. He was just one more bit of property Amarantha had ruined. None of this was real. He was asleep. He was dreaming. He was going to wake up soon, and he’d be in either her bed or in Rhys’s bed Under the Mountain and it had never ended.

The end of it all had been the dream. It had never ended. He was still down there.

_No. I don’t want to wake up. No._

“Tamlin?” Rhys still had his hand out, the High Lord’s smirk dropped off his face like a light turned off in a room. He could see Kallias looking with narrowed eyes between them, at the open worry in Rhys’s face and the terror that must be written across his own. “Tamlin, what’s wrong?”

Tamlin felt Lucien’s hand on his arm and spun his direction, shoving him so hard the other man fell to the floor. Lucien stood slowly back up, his empty hands out, as though calming a wild animal. “Get the fuck away! It’s not safe! It’s not _safe,_ Luce, you need to go back home. When I wake up, she’s going to be there waiting-”

“Who is ‘she’?” Helion asked, in a whisper, leaning towards Kallias and speaking behind his hand, as though he’d missed some important act in a play.

“Who the fuck do you think ‘she’ is?” Kallias asked icily. “Who else would he be this scared of?” His nearly-colorless eyes burned into Rhys. “Daemati doing?”

“No,” Rhys replied. “This is just what happens to her lovers. Would you like to hear about what she kept in the box?”

“No,” Kallias said faintly, pale face slightly green around the edges.

Rhys snorted. “Why not? Might help you to understand what he’s doing now. He’s never done _this_ before, though.”

“Yes, he has,” Lucien muttered. “Just not around you. At least he recognizes me this time. Last time he thought I was _Eris_ and it… was uncomfortable. Tamlin? Can you hear me, Tam?”

“Shut _up_ , you’re not here, either,” Tamlin started to slowly back away. “You never had to go Under the Mountain. I made sure of it-”

“Is that what you did?” Lucien, eyes wide, suddenly looked as guilty as Tamlin felt. “Is that why she wrote those things in that damn letter she made Rhysand give you?”

"You _read_ that?"

"Of course I did," Lucien said, voice soft. "You left without saying goodbye."

“What a bastard move, Tamlin,” Eris said, sounding perfectly bright and cheerful. “He’s your _best friend._ Too eager to let Rhysand winnow you away?” 

“Keep your fucking mouth shut,” Mor snapped at him. “You’re the whole reason he’s even like this right now.”

“Damn straight,” Eris said, but there was a strange off-key note to his voice. Tamlin looked at the dark joy on his face now and thought about the concern and fear before. _I’m sorry_ . “I know you like to pretend you’re so innocent, Morrigan, but you have to admit he’s _gorgeous_ like this.”

“You’re _disgusting_.”

“I know. Aren’t you so glad I didn’t make you marry me?”

Rhys leaned over, trying to get Tamlin to look at him. _Spring, this is real. You’re awake._

Rather than bring him back, it only heightened the panic rising in his chest. He could hear his own breathing, harsh and loud, but he couldn’t seem to calm it down. They were all looking at him. All of them. _Everyone was looking at him._ This wasn’t real, was it? He was just dreaming. This was just a dream, he’d had them like this before, dreams about getting out from under her and having them all _look at him like this._ He was still down there. He was going to wake up, chained to the wall, and she was going to laugh and whisper, _I can haunt you anywhere I like._

This wasn’t real. They weren’t _free_. This was all a dream and if he wasn’t careful, he’d wake up and wreck it. They were all looking at him. “Please stop,” He mumbled, but none of them looked away. “Please stop looking at me.”

_(did you think i would die so easily?)_

“No,” He whispered, lips numb. “No, you can’t talk inside my head here, you can’t-” He could almost feel her fingers in his hair, where he slept next to her in the bed, just waiting for him to wake up. Waiting to hurt him again.

“Mother’s hands,” Thesan said, and even his careful self-control was gone, replaced by the same horror and pity he saw reflected across the rest of them. “Has he lost his mind?”

“Wouldn’t you?” Lucien snapped, his eyes flashing, light glinting off the metal eye. 

 _Tamlin, you’re already awake, this is_ real. _We shouldn’t have done this, you weren’t ready. I’m sorry._

_(if i can’t have you no one can)_

“You’re not here, you can’t talk to me anymore, you’re not here-”

_Spring? Tamlin?_

_(would you like to see how dark it can get inside your head, my love?)_

_Please listen to me._

“No, I don’t want to-”

He couldn’t pick their voices apart, they were all part of what was inside him, Amarantha talking over Rhys until he couldn’t hear him anymore, could only see his mouth moving. He was going to wake up and she would have her knife in hand and whisper that it was time to cut him up again. 

_(let me push your head under the water)_

_Rhys, help me, I’m drowning-_

“Tamlin, how _dark_ is it in there?” Eris asked. The air changed, was suddenly thin and fogged over, a pall cast over everything, the light gone weak and slightly rusty.

_(here is what i’ve done to you, tamlin, my love)_

“What is that?” Mor asked, wrinkling her nose. “It smells like… like...”

Lucien winced, putting a hand up over his chest. “It smells like a forest fire. Cauldron, my chest hurts. It must be the smoke.”

Mor slowly shook her head, putting a hand on his arm. “I don’t feel anything. I can smell it, but...”

Rhys frowned, looking up towards the ceiling, where smoke roiled and tumbled over itself like a faded shadow. The air seemed thinner somehow, harder to breathe. “What does it feel like, Lucien?”

“Like someone just reached into my chest and-” Lucien fell to his knees with a wordless cry, holding himself up with one hand while the other grabbed desperately at his heart, hair falling over his face. “Like someone is… pulling me out of myself-” Lucien cried out again, voice ragged with pain, and curled over himself on the floor, his skin lit at the edges with a dark red and orange flickering light.

Tamlin looked down at his own hands and discovered a brilliant, dancing rust-colored light trailing along the edges of his skin and glowing faintly out of his scars. It was brighter than Lucien’s light, and as it glowed more brightly, Lucien’s began to darken. He tilted his head, blinking. This never happened in his dreams.

“What in the name of the Cauldron…?” Thesan stared with open shock and fear, his usually expressionless face wide-eyed. 

The drapes on either side of the grand window went up in a sudden flame, burned to ashes, and drifted to the ground. 

“Oh, I should go,” Helion said thoughtfully. “This is _not_ going to end well.”

“Did it _start well_?” Thesan snapped back.

“How’s it feel, Lucien?” Eris asked, his eyebrows furrowed with genuine, dismayed surprise.

“H-hurts… ‘Ris, help-”

“Don’t worry.” Eris’s voice was gentle, totally unlike the way he spoke to everyone else. “Don’t worry, Luce, I’ll take care of it in just a second, all right?”

Mor turned quickly to Rhys. “Maybe because he’s Spring Court?”

“No,” Rhys said slowly. “This isn’t the Spring Court. This is...”

“Don’t worry,” Tamlin said gently, looking down at Lucien. His eyes were distant and empty. “It’s just a dream. This isn’t real. It’s not really hurting you.” He flexed his hands and the smoke grew darker.

“C-could’ve fooled me,” Lucien said thinly, groaning out loud.

_(just a little deeper)_

“Tamlin?” Rhys asked, in a voice that was barely a whisper.

“What did you do to me when she told you to go into my head?” Tamlin’s voice shook. “It’s so dark down here.” He turned to look at Rhys, and his eyes were dark. "You fucking daemati, what did you _do?_ "

( _drown, you worthless fucking whore, drown)_ **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this one is going up a few hours early, but I won't have time to post on the usual day so I figured no harm in posting a titch early - the next chapter WILL go up on Saturday, so you won't have to wait too long for it!


	13. A Coldly Calculating Ambition

“Tamlin?” Rhys said, in a voice just above a whisper. He thought of his knees buckling Under the Mountain when Amarantha had announced she knew where Velaris was. There was an ache in his chest just like that. 

“Why can I  _ hear _ her?” Tamlin’s hands slowly went up to either side of his head. He was building a wall around his mind, something too deep for Rhys to get in and bring him back out, and the only thing he could sense from inside his mate’s head was an endless fear. 

Tamlin couldn’t build shields like this. This was a  _ daemati  _ wall. This was…  _ his daemati  _ wall.

"I-..." Rhys's voice cracked and he caught it, only barely. "I can't rebuild a mind I damaged, that's not what I do… I had to lock it up instead. I didn't know any other way to help you. She wouldn't let me call for a healer."

Tamlin's dark eyes narrowed, and the dusty red glow, a wildfire seen from a distance, brightened. Lucien groaned. "This was you _ helping me? _ "

"I brought you _back_." Who was he trying to convince? He'd never shown a hint of the agony it had caused him, standing over Tamlin where he knelt on the floor before her throne. Tamlin had curled over himself, screaming at the pain Amarantha ordered he inflict. Rhys's face had been calm, his hand on Tamlin's hair even and a solid presence holding him to the floor as he had torn him apart on her orders. "I brought you back out of your head. I had to lock it up… what I had to show you. What she wanted you to think, to see. I had to lock it up."

Tamlin's face went briefly distant and empty and then he smiled at him,  _ for  _ him, faintly, and the flash of darkness was gone. "You did. You came to find me." Then he looked away, and Rhys watched the walls start to blacken, as though fire might be about to burn through from the other side. "You came for me, then, didn't you? How bad does it get before you don't come to find me?"

“Tamlin- stop it-” Lucien hissed. 

This was officially much, much worse than Rhys’s worst expectations for how this meeting would go. “Eris, if you care for Tamlin, you need to stop doing this to him,” Rhys said with gritted teeth. “If you meant  _ any  _ of what you said to him earlier-”

“I don’t know if I meant it. Maybe I just wanted to get close enough to touch his scars. Looks like I found a few more than originally anticipated. Oh, my sweet Tamlin, Lucien isn’t the target here. Let my brother _ be _ , won’t you?”

There was a pause.

“Now Tam, you know how the game is played." Eris's voice lost all it's humor and went flat and serious. "I tell you what to do, and you do it. That was an  _ order. _ " Tamlin flinched. Lucien took in a deep, gasping breath, and the wildfire red began to fade out of his skin.

“Oh, thank the Cauldron, _ air _ ,” Lucien said, trying to push himself back up. 

Eris swallowed, closing his eyes only briefly. “Sorry, Luce. You weren’t meant to get involved. You know how it is.” There was a strange guilt in his eyes, behind the laughter, that Rhys could not quite understand.

“It?” Mor repeated, eyebrows furrowing. “How  _ what  _ is?”

“That information is locked up,” Eris said airily, tapping one finger to the side of his head.

Rhys swallowed against the urge to defend Tamlin or to save him, and instead he focused his power on trying to see inside Eris’s head. If that information was  _ locked up,  _ then Rhys could pick the damn lock or simply break Eris’s mind entirely and deal with the fallout afterwards.

Eris would have shields, of course, but he was good at getting past mental shields and always had been. He’d find the weak link in the fence and Eris would be none the wiser.

“You’re a sick bastard, Eris,” Tarquin said with a terrible sadness on his face. “I had hoped-”

“I told you so,” Cresseida hissed, half-hidden behind a column. “I told you it would end like this.”

“No,  _ you  _ said it would end with Rhysand getting in a fight with someone.”

“And? What do you call this?!”

“That’s  _ Tamlin-” _

“Pretty much the same thing! Rhysand controls him now!”

“I  _ do no such thing!”  _ Eris’s shields were strong. Too strong, Rhys thought, frowning. He was just Autumn Court, this wasn’t their specialty, he shouldn’t have been able to build them so strong… But it wasn’t Night Court  _ daemati,  _ either.

Cauldron, he needed Azriel here for this.

Rhys tried to reach out to Tamlin but the other male pulled quickly away from him, shaking his head. He was staring at nothing, his green eyes wide and sightless, chest heaving with shallow breaths, swaying on his feet. “Don’t touch me,” He muttered. “I don’t always need you to wake me up from nightmares. I don’t want to wake up this time-” His voice was thin, his breaths shallow and panting, as though there wasn’t enough air to breathe in this cavernous room.

“We need to calm him down and get him out of here,” Kallias said firmly. “Command him, if you have to. Put all that mess in your voice you use in your own court. I think like this he would obey you. Talk to him the way  _ she  _ would have.”

Viviane put a hand on Kallias’s arm, eyebrows knitted together with concern. “Kal, is that wise? He seems so… fragile like this.”

“Tamlin’s strong as hell,” Lucien growled, not at her so much as in general into the air, finally back on his feet. “You don’t know what she did down there. You don’t hear him talk in his sleep. He got back up.  _ You  _ wouldn’t have. You’d all have shattered and he  _ didn’t. _ ”

“Rhysand isn’t as bothered by it,” Thesan said quietly. “And he was there for longer. We’ve never seen him do this or anything like this.”

Rhys laughed, dropping his attempts to get into Eris’s head to turn and stare around at them. It was a bitter, humorless sound, much, much louder than he’d intended it to be. “You have got to be fucking _ kidding _ me!”

“What?” Thesan stared at him. “There’s no need to shout, Rhysand.”

“I’m not miraculously recovered or immune, you gods-damned asses. I _killed_ fae on her orders because if I did, I didn't have to look at _myself_. Do you think I just… put that down when she died and forgot about it? I see _all their faces,_ those fae I slaughtered for her, when I close my eyes. I have _all that blood_ on my hands and time in _her bed_ , besides. I watched her rip wings off a fae that looked so much like Cas-” He didn’t look at Mor. He couldn’t. Her hearing this, her _seeing this,_ was one of his greatest fears. When he felt her put a hand on his arm, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. _I wish my brothers were here._ “None of you wanted to see it. You just wanted to see her whore."

“You’re right,” Kallias said, in what might have passed for a soothing tone in his chilly, hard voice. “We didn’t see it. We chose not to. That is not important right now. Your mate is losing his mind in front of us and you need to get him out of here.”

“I need to figure out  _ why. _ ” Rhys thought about Tamlin on the floor of his ruined study.  _ You can’t be my mate and be that to me.  _ “Kallias, I- I promised him I wouldn’t-”

“When he returns to himself, he will understand,” Kallias said softly. “I know this is hard. He needs to get away from the place - and the people-” He cut furious eyes at Eris, who stared back with bland innocence. “-who set him off.”

“All I did was tease him a bit,” Eris said with sincere innocence. “You can’t  _ blame  _ me for that.”

Rhys took a breath and looked around the room, looking at all of their eyes on Tamlin, on his mate, on the only other person who knew the hell he’d lived through. The person he’d have lived through centuries more hell just to save. Tamlin, who had not been down there long enough to get deadened to it like Rhys had. Amarantha had cut apart Tamlin and Rhys had put him back together but you could only take out so many pieces from a puzzle before you stopped seeing the picture it was meant to show. 

_ Can I forgive myself for being relieved at first when I thought it would finally be you instead of me? _

“Eris, why did you do this to him?” Lucien asked a little helplessly, pushing his hair back out of his face, his face shiny with a cold sweat. “Why would you even want to see this happen? You used to like him.” His eyes flicked sidelong to Rhys and then back to Eris.

Lucien’s mind was open. He’d taken down his shields, and Rhys could  _ hear  _ him thinking as loudly as he could. His voice was clear as a bell. _ There is a spell inside my brother. I can see it. He's being compelled to do this. I hope you can hear me. _

“I never liked him,” Eris said with a sneer. Rhys went back to trying to find his way into Eris’s head. _Good, Lucien, keep him distracted so I can get this done…_ “You want to know what I liked about Tamlin? I _liked_ the way we both had fathers who hated us. I _liked_ that he got drunk more quickly than I did and he was so starved for _kindness_ after Rhysand’s father killed his family that he would do just about _anything_ for me. I _liked_ that everyone abandoned him when he didn’t know how to do his fucking job, because it made him even more desperate for anything that wasn’t hostility. I liked that he was _fucked up,_ that we both were. I liked…” The sneer faded, and Eris took a deep breath. “Oh, Luce. I liked that he was nice to you.”

“I wish one of the others had killed you first, Eris.” Lucien leaned over Tamlin, a bit of auburn hair falling along one shoulder as he whispered into his ear. “Hey. We have to get up, Tamlin. I need you to get up and walk with me. There we go. Just come on.” His voice was a low, soothing murmur. Tamlin began to pull his hands away from his head, looking at Lucien with terrified eyes, but he nodded, slowly.

“What are you doing?” Rhys asked. He was nearly in, he had found the crack, the weak spot in the shield, that would let him into Eris’s head...

Lucien just sighed. “This isn’t the first time he’s done this, Rhys. Although he’s never set things on fire before.”

Rhys looked at his mate, reaching up to touch his hair, pushing it back off his forehead a little. Tamlin didn’t look at him, still shaking like a leaf. “You didn’t tell me-”

“He asked me not to,” Lucien said heavily. “He hasn't done it since he went back to you. And he’s going to be _ pissed _ when I tell him about it later."

Eris swallowed, almost audible in a room that was so quiet a pin could have been heard dropped to the ground. “Hey, Tam. Look at me.” He snapped his fingers and Tamlin’s eyes jumped to his immediately. Rhys felt his heart crack apart at the mindless obedience. “You are so fucking  _ broken.  _ It’s such a pity that  _ she _ was the one who-”

Rhys narrowed his eyes and Eris's voice simply cut off mid-sentence. He put his hands to his throat, but Rhys had not quite stopped him in time.

Tamlin’s eyes flashed and he threw himself snarling across the table, shifting into the beast as he went, claws and fangs and fur flashing out in an instant, before Rhys and Lucien could catch him to pull him back. Rhys, surprised, lost his grip on Eris's voice.

Eris pushed his chair out and stood, a humorless smile on his face. As the beast reached him, Eris threw a hand out, palm facing out and fingers up, and snapped, “ _ Down,  _ boy!”

The beast came to a stop, nose pressed against Eris's hand, snarling.

_ Why is he listening to Eris’s orders?  _ Panic pounded Rhys’s heart up in his throat but he had to understand what was happening here. None of it made any  _ sense. _

“Oh, Tamlin,” Lucien muttered, trying to get around the table to get to him. 

“You lose  _ again _ , Tamlin,” Eris said softly, tilting his hair, that auburn curl falling over his eyes again. His face had hardened. It was someone else’s face entirely. "Don’t you  _ ever _ get tired of losing to me? I guess you'll make a pretty lovely consolation prize."

Tamlin shifted back, backing up until his back bumped into the table where Eris had been sitting, looking down with an expression that suggested he was startled to find himself a fae male again. Eris smiled at him, stepping up and picking his wine glass back up from the table, taking a languid, slow sip.

“I killed your brothers-” Tamlin growled, a note of helpless guilt in his voice. The sound was inhuman, unfae, animal. “I killed them for you-”

“You did a  _ wonderful _ job,” Eris replied. “Thank you, old friend. What else would you have done for me, down there? I know what you did for  _ her _ , after I left. She had to brag to someone about it and Mother knows I’m always an eager listener when someone wants to talk about what you do in bed. Let me ask you something, Tam. Would you have gone to your knees for me, too, then?”

“Yes,” Tamlin said hoarsely, unwillingly. There was a surprised intake of breath around the room.

“Oh, Cauldron, Rhys,” Mor said with tears threatening in her voice. “What was it  _ like  _ down there?”

“What did you  _ think  _ it was like?” Rhys asked tightly. “We didn’t exactly have tea parties, Mor."

“I’m so sorry you had to live through that,” She whispered, her hand still on his arm.

_ I’m not, _ He thought, surprised to realize it was the truth.  _ Although it would have been nice to skip all the trauma and find my mate first. _

“I swear to the Mother I’m going to rip your throat out one day, Eris.” It was Kallias who spoke, his expression one of icy composure, but the bottle of wine closest to him suddenly froze and shattered into burgundy icicles. “You’re no better than Beron. Stop this at once.”

“Stop what? All I’ve done is  _ talk _ ,” Eris said smoothly. “You can’t hold me responsible for how Tamlin responds to words. It’s not my fault he’s so weak.”

“I  _ killed them for you! I killed them for you and you walked away and left me alone with her! _ Y-you left- left me alone- in th-the dark, you were gone-” Lucien and Rhys had made it to Tamlin, taking his arms to try and pull him back and away. 

“Oh cut the  _ dramatics,  _ Tamlin, I merely made a calculation,” Eris said with a shrug. “She wanted an excuse, I wanted my brothers out of the way, and I did  _ not  _ want to be roped into helping her put the Cauldron together. Judge me if you wish, but some troops and a little bit of new damage piled on the old for our sweet Tamlin here was a small price to pay for  _ not  _ helping her remake the world.” He looked coldly at Thesan. “Some of us have  _ standards  _ for how low we’ll sink, after all.”

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Thesan hissed.

“I’ve never heard you swear before,” Helion said. “I think I _ like  _ it. If you decide to leave your Peregryn, come find me. Apparently High Lords can do that now.”

“Not now, Helion,” Thesan replied tightly, eyes narrowed to angry slits.

"Then  _ when? _ " Helion asked, exasperated.

“I  _ do _ regret not asking for some time with  _ you  _ as my payment, though.” Eris smiled, looking back at Tamlin. “Where  _ are  _ you right now?”

“I’m- I’m-” Tamlin’s breath shuddered in and out like a slamming door rattling on its hinges. “I’m in the dark-” The air had gone thin and there was a blackness shrouding the room that hadn’t been there before, a cold wind that came from nowhere and everywhere around them. 

Rhys groaned out loud as the ache in his chest suddenly spiked, falling backwards onto the floor, closing his eyes tightly. His attempts to break into Eris’s mind fell apart under the pressure of it. “Wh-what the fuck-”

“I’m home,” Tamlin said, weakly. “She came back for us, Rhys.”

Along the bond, from behind the sound of a pounding heart and blood rushing into his veins, Rhys heard not Tamlin’s voice, but  _ hers.  _ That high sweet feminine voice that had always seemed so strange compared with her power and malevolence. It was so loud, so  _ present,  _ that he caught himself looking around frantically, as though she might be standing right there.

_ (hello rhys, darling. i would never leave you) _

He could feel her fingers trail down the back of his neck and over his spine, palms over his ribcage, down the front of his stomach, to grip onto his hips.

_ (what i did to you went so deep, didn't it?) _

“No,” he said in a whisper. She wasn’t here. She was dead. She was-

She was part of the torture Rhys had locked away inside Tamlin's mind to protect him. And that dark spot was open.

Tamlin’s terror was infecting the bond, and her voice was twining around and along it. It had always been a melodic voice, soft and disturbingly, deceptively sweet. He could nearly see her face, the pinprick pupils in her eyes, feel her fingernails dig into the bones of his hips.

_ (did you think i would let you walk away from me? that you could ignore me?) _

“Where _ is _ home for you, Tamlin?” Eris asked, leaning forward slowly in his chair. His face was a hideous mix of thrill and guilt. “What  _ do _ you call home?”

_ (did you think you could just forget about me?) _

Rhys let out a cry from behind teeth he ground together as the pain intensified, trying to claw it out of his own chest somehow, scrabbling weakly at himself. It felt like a hand,  _ her hand, _ had reached inside of him and grabbed at the well of power that sat just behind his heart and now pulled, inexorably  _ pulled  _ him along with it. 

He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, she hadn’t told him yet to breathe.

_ Cauldron damn it all, Tamlin, you’ve got to tell me to breathe. _

The wind was colder and the room had gone so dim he could barely see five feet away. He could feel his own power ripping him apart to get out.

“Rhys?! Rhys, what’s wrong?!” Mor grabbed at him, pulling him away from Tamlin as best she could.

_ (oh tamlin, did you really think he could love you?) _

_I love you,_ he sent desperately down the bond. _Don't listen to her._ _I love you I love you I love you._

“What happened to Lucien-... it’s happening to me. He’s  _ using me somehow _ . That darkness isn’t me, it’s  _ him.  _ Cauldron, that- hurts-... He’s  _ pulling it out of me _ and he’s  _ using it. _ ”

“Th-that’s not possible.” They both looked back at Tamlin, and Rhys could feel Mor trembling next to him. “That’s  _ impossible, Rhys,  _ he can’t  _ do that. _ ”

“Don’t let them come any closer to you, Tamlin,” Eris said softly. Rhys, through eyes clouded with the pain, realized that all the malevolent pleasure had gone and he looked openly frightened now.  _ Eris, what the Cauldron-damned fuck are you doing?  _ “They’ll wake you up. You have to keep them away.”

A beast’s claws drove into his brain like daggers and the daemati in him was twisted out of his control. He felt himself force everyone in the room to freeze where they stood. There was a cold sweat across his forehead as his back arched with the pain, wicked up by the wind that blew hair around his face wildly. “Tam… let go of us, Tam.” His voice was weak, he knew Tamlin couldn’t hear him, not over the noise of the wind, not over her voice. 

_ (be my good boy. take them all) _

Kallias put a hand up to his chest, too, his already white skin going even paler, eyes half-rolled up his head, as the temperature around them began to drop. Viviane caught him instinctively with one arm, looking up at Tamlin with the cold, furious expression of what she truly was - not just Kallias’s mate but the head of his armies, a woman of insurmountable skill in battle tactics and the knowledge of how to tear down an enemy on nearly every battleground. When she tried to grab for her own sword, Tamlin’s eyes skipped to hers and she jerked her hand back with a cry as her sword simply lit on fire. Kallias struggled back to his feet to stand between her and Tamlin, ice growing over his hands, the weight trying to pull him back down.

Lucien curled over himself, trying to claw at his own chest as Viviane struggled to unhook her sword from her belt before her dress went up in flames, too, beating at the embers with her bare hands and swearing loudly. “Damn it, Tam, you’re using my fire to  _ hurt people- _ ”

“You’re not really here,” Tamlin said hoarsely. "It's not a real fire."

_ (can you imagine how much darker it would have been if we’d only had more time together?) _

The temperature around them continued to fall, and Rhys could see his breath fogging in front of him. Ice grew violently down the huge window at breathtaking speed, layering over itself, thickening to a sheet wider than Rhys’s hand and heavy as a house, until with a deafening crack the glass finally shattered, and the sound of the ocean grew louder. There were tinny shouts from down below. Rhys looked out to see the sea outside throwing giant waves onto the shore, bashing against it, as the people began to run. He looked back to see Tarquin on his knees, one hand to his chest and the other on the floor to hold himself up, Varian’s hand on his shoulder. The Peregryn soldier that Syvet had called to replace him had moved in front of Thesan, blade out, wings angled to protect his lord from any flying objects.

“He can’t  _ do that, _ ” Tarquin said thinly, weakly. “No one can do this. None of us has so much power.”

_ I do,  _ Rhys thought.  _ I have this much power and none of you ever knew. But… Tamlin doesn’t. Tamlin doesn't, but I do, and he's taking it from me... _

What had he left behind, when he’d wrapped up the torture he’d inflicted on him at Amarantha’s command? 

_ (did you think you could just leave? oh no, my darlings, if can’t have you) _

“No one can,” Rhys growled out loud. “I know, you bitch, you told me ten thousand times.”

Eris was the only one seemingly unaffected, and he leaned forward a little further, watching Tamlin’s face with an obscene curiosity, a kind of desire that was darker than lust. But the panic still shimmered around the edges, panic and something like shame. Rhys wanted in that head so badly.

_ Why the fuck is he doing this? _

_ (no one leaves me) _

The faelights that lit the room around them began to burst one by one. Helion and Lucien shouted curses nearly in unison, as everyone’s glamour, all the protective wards, all the spells set into this place were simply broken. 

Lucien had curled into a ball on the floor, hissing in pain, his forehead touching the floor. "Hurts- ah, Cauldron, my  _ eye- _ "

Helion stumbled back against a wall, staring at Lucien with wide, wild eyes. “ _ You?  _ It’s  _ you? _ ” Lucien, twisted by Tamlin stealing not one but two powers right out of his body, didn’t seem to notice or even hear him.

“I asked you a  _ question,  _ Tam,” Eris said. “Where is  _ home _ for you?”

“I’m in the dark. Don’t walk away from me, Eris, don’t lock the door- I’m in the dark-”

“Sssshhh,” Eris said, in a gentle, soothing voice. “Ssssshhh, I know. I know, Tam. You’re dreaming, aren’t you? This is all just a dream, you're still there-"

“Eris, what the fuck-” Lucien’s head jerked up, eyes wide. "What are you trying to do?"

“Shut up, Luce. There are things you don’t understand."

Tamlin roared, and the sound was inhuman and bounced off the walls, rattling the glasses, knocking over wine bottles, so deafening that multiple fae put their hands up over their ears. Darkness encroached from the corners of the room, faded blackish-green vines growing up the columns and the table legs, prickling thorns the size of their thumbs catching dress hems and pant legs. The wind blew colder and slammed the doors shut, closing everyone in. The waves breaking against the shore were heading further and further inland despite it being low tide and they had nearly reached the first beachside buildings by now, pulling debris back with them into the water.

_ (kneel for me my love) _

Tamlin fell to his knees on the ground. Eris laughed, a little breathlessly, staring down as if shocked at the result of everything he’d been doing. “That’s right,” He breathed out. “Good boy.” Rhys’s stomach roiled at the sound of his voice, slightly twisted and snarling. His eyes were a deep dark blue, ringed in a lighter color. The person looking out of Eris's eyes was not Eris at all.

"'Ris-" Lucien whispered, eyes wide. "'Ris-"

_ (there are worse things in the world than me) _

“He can’t do this,” Tarquin groaned again. “No one can do this, Varian, why can he do this?” Varian moved himself to stand between Tarquin, Cresseida, and the rest of the room. “What the hell did she  _ do to them  _ down there?”

“This isn’t her,” Kallias said loud enough to be heard over the wind, his voice a piece of glacier breaking off and crashing into the water below. “I know what she was capable of. This isn’t her. Rhysand,  _ order him to stop. _ ”

“Yes, Rhys,” Eris said, turning those blue eyes on him. Even his voice was different, smoother, a little deeper. _ “Do _ that. Tell him what to do. You gave him plenty of commands before, didn’t you?" Eris's eyes flickered into and out of the gold, as though he were fighting his way back to the front. "Although from what I heard outside that broom closet, they mostly consisted of things like  _ open your mouth wider, take it deeper, use your tongue more- _ ” He ticked each thing off on the fingers of one hand, thoughtfully. “Oh, and I particularly enjoyed  _ I’ll make sure you’re thinking about me when we’re with her tonight. _ ” He grinned, and the blue eyes were gone fully, Eris was back in all his morbid good humor. “You know, when it was  _ me _ , he never needed to be told how to do it right.”

“I’m going to fucking  _ kill you _ ,” Rhys hissed in a thin, shaking voice. “If it’s the last thing I do-”

“Oh, Rhysand. Always resorting to murder to solve your personal problems. Can't hide  _ all _ that damage, can you? Can’t cover up  _ everything  _ she did to you with a smirk and a well-placed insult. I look forward to seeing you try,” Eris smiled. “Better men have died in their efforts to get me out of the way and had to settle for less. The sun goes down, Rhysand, and the night never rises.”

_ What the fuck does that mean? _

“Can’t you just get him through the mating bond?” Mor asked, her voice having to rise to be heard above the screaming, howling cold wind. 

Tamlin looked slowly up from underneath his eyelashes, where he knelt on the floor. Shadows crawled like living things around the room, twisting into things that were nearly human or fae in shape, breaking apart and dissolving again.

Rhys would have given a lot to have Cas and Az here to help him right now. He had a feeling Tam couldn’t have taken their power like this - Illyrians were too different. And Azriel would have known how to make it stop.

Azriel had still been with him when he was learning how to control himself as an adolescent in the camps, after all. Az had always known how to talk down a daemati who let things go too far.

“He’s shut me out.” Rhys shook his head. “Completely.” Well, not  _ completely _ \- through the shields around Tamlin’s mind he could hear his muffled screaming, hear Amarantha’s voice, could just about see the swirling darkness of the torture he’d locked up and hoped Tam would never find. “He’s buried so deep inside his own head… I-I don’t know what to do-”

"Yes, you do,” Kallias said calmly, even as he struggled to stay on his feet, watching Viviane pull a knife out of some hidden pocket in her dress to slash apart vines that threatened to grow right over their feet. “Start giving some fucking _orders,_ Rhysand.”

“Damn it,” Rhys said, heavily. "Tamlin, I didn't want to do this."

Tamlin didn't hear him…  _ couldn't  _ hear him. He stared up at the shadows that crawled along the ceiling, his skin glowing a bright and burnished red at every edge, and Rhys could have sworn his eyes seemed strangely pale.

__ “Tamlin. Get the fuck on your feet _. _ ”

Tamlin slowly turned his head, tilted oddly like a puppet with cut strings. “I-”

“I  _ said  _ get the fuck up. Let them go. Do I need to say it  _ again _ ? What happens when I have to give an order twice, Tamlin? Would you like to be reminded?” He twisted his voice into an echo of  _ hers  _ and hoped to the Cauldron this worked, because if it didn’t there wouldn’t be enough hot baths in the world to get himself clean. “I expect my orders to be  _ obeyed.  _ Let. Them. Go. Drop it.”

The High Lords let out a collective breath as the pain in all their chests eased. Rhys could hear the deafening roar of the ocean begin to quiet. Tamlin began to push himself to his feet, the reddish, rusty light edging his skin fading away. 

Eris watched, his eyes locked on Tamlin’s face. He slowly licked his lips. “You’re so lucky to have this, Rhysand,” He said, softly, sincerely, and Rhys snarled. “I would kill for a lover this absolutely broken. While you’re giving orders-”

“Eris, there is no law against murder that could keep my hands from around your neck right now if Tamlin didn’t need me more. But trust me, I’m going to find you and I will make you regret ever even so much as  _ looking _ at my mate.” 

“You’re the one who walked away the first time,” Eris said softly. "When he really needed you." The venom in his voice was his own. 

Rhys paused, and only a supreme self-control  **-** and the memory of someone else's power wearing Eris's face and his need to know who it had  _ been _ \- kept him from killing Eris right there where he stood. Without looking away from Eris, he snapped, “Get out of here, Tamlin. We’re going home.” The wind died down and the darkness was gone, replaced by the strangely beautiful, sunny day outside. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I shouldn’t be here,” Tamlin repeated, numbly. 

“But I needed to talk to you about-” Tarquin started, and when Rhys looked at him the words faltered into silence.

“I will come see you personally tomorrow,” Rhys said tightly. “Or you may come to Rosehall in the Spring Court and we will see you there. I’ll pay for the window, I promise. I just… I need to take care of him.”

“Did you ever think you’d see Rhysand decide to care about someone more than himself?” Helion asked no one in particular.

“No, I didn’t,” Kallias replied, but something in his cold face warmed. “Life is all about surprises.”

“You’re taking him to Velaris?” Lucien asked, quietly, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Tamlin had his arms crossed in front of himself, eyes staring with empty fear at nothing in particular. He was murmuring to himself, not quite loud enough to be understood.  

The vines were still twisting around them and rosebuds began to open, red-tipped black roses that dropped fat petals like drops of old blood onto the floor, rotting away as fast as they bloomed.

“Yes. Just on the other side of the door.”

“I’m coming with you,” Lucien said firmly. “Now. I need to be with him when he comes back.”

“Why?”  _ He’s my mate, not yours.  _ Rhys didn’t say the words out loud, but he knew Lucien read them on his face. 

“Not all of us are blinded by loving you, Rhysand,” Lucien said tightly. “I’m not trying to be unkind. I’ll even admit that I think you’re good for him. But I’ve been watching Tamlin’s back a long damn time and I’m not going to stop just because you sauntered up and told me you’re his knight in shining armor. I've seen mates gone wrong. I just want to keep him safe."

Rhys opened his mouth to protest, but then closed it again with a snap. 

“I’d love to get him  _ alone like this  _ and see what he can really do,” Eris murmured in a voice that wasn’t quite a purr. Rhys felt a surge of jealous rage at the way Eris spoke the words, the poison that dripped off of them. He could hear Amarantha in every syllable - and someone else, too.

“Shut  _ up,  _ Eris,” Rhys and Lucien said at the exact same time.

Eris, twisting the knife in Tamlin’s mind, looked more alive than Rhys had ever seen him. “Do you think he’d follow any order you gave him right now?”

“Speak again and lose your tongue and then your mind,” Rhys said with the smooth, cruel emptiness of the High Lord of Night. His mother had been right. Eris might fake it for a while, but in the end, those gold eyes were empty. He’d still been working at Eris’s mind and finally, he found the empty space in the shield, the spot where he could find his way in.

He intended just to take a look, figure it out, but what he saw in there… Rhys faltered, for just a moment. Then he pulled himself out of Eris’s mind as quickly as he could.

_ Upswept blue eyes in an angelic face. Eyes as deep as the ocean, ringed in a lighter blue, filled with unending, enduring hatred and a coldly calculating ambition, a mind that enjoyed subjugation and the pain of tearing someone apart in their own head, a mind colder and darker and more malevolent than Eris's had ever been.  _

“I’ll cut off your manhood myself,” Mor said, her voice calm and melodic, carrying through the room.  The skin around her eyes and her mouth was white but no other sign of her rage was visible. The tears were gone. “Let’s see if it’s really as small as it seems, since you spend so much time compensating for it.”

“I’ll take your limbs,” Lucien finished, hand back on the hilt of his sword. He tilted his head slightly, as though listening to something the rest of them couldn’t hear. “Or maybe your fingers first and  _ then  _ your limbs. We’ll decide once we get started.”

“Fine, I’ll stop. Take care of him, Luce,” Eris said with no discernable reaction to the threats and no sign that he knew Rhys had been inside his head, giving his youngest brother a wave. “Let him know when he comes back that I’ll see him later.”

“The fuck you will,” Rhys growled, his voice barely a murderous whisper, regaining control of himself. “Tamlin. We’re leaving now. Go.”

_ (how dark it is down here) _

Rhys moved Tamlin with Mor and Lucien a worried presence just behind him. Amren detached herself from Varian’s side to follow them, looking once over her shoulder.

A sudden thought came out of Tamlin down the mating bond, and rang as clear as a bell, as he stumbled with a sort of terrified automatic obedience out of the room.

_ Please don’t make me wake up, Rhys. _

_ I won’t, Tam.  _ He couldn’t tell if Tamlin could hear him or not. He was still shielded, and there was no clear reaction. He slid an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in close, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. He could feel Tamlin start to melt into the embrace, still shaking.

_ Don’t make me wake up. I’m going to wake up and she’s going to be laughing- _

_ She’s dead, Tamlin. She’s dead.  _ He looked over his shoulder at Mor as they walked out into the hallway, and whatever was on his face must have been terrible, because her eyes were full of tears.

“Shouldn’t have let him fucking come here,” Lucien muttered, one hand gripped white-knuckled to the hilt of his sword. “I knew Eris would try something like this.” A pause. “I know, I  _ know you told me so _ , I was just hoping… no, I  _ know _ people don’t change-... I didn't think he was going to do  _ this  _ when I said it!"

“Lucien,” Rhys said tightly, “We need to talk about Eris.”

“I  _ know,  _ I know he’s-”

“No. We… need to be somewhere secure and then  _ we need to talk about Eris. _ Something is very wrong with your brother.”

“That’s the truth,” Mor mumbled.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” Lucien said tightly. “I can see him wrapped up in something. You saw his eyes, too, right?”

“Yes. But I don’t think anyone else did. I think he wanted us to see his eyes.”

_ (let your head go under the water and drown in what you are) _

Tamlin looked around himself with white-ringed eyes. "She came back for us, Rhys," He said in a small voice. The air twisted around him and he was gone.

“Shit!” Lucien groaned. “Where did he go?”

Rhys’s heart beat like a hammer in his chest. “He went home. I’ll meet the two of you back in Velaris. I’m going after him.”

“Home?” Lucien echoed, confused. "But if he's just at Rosehall…" Understanding came to him and he slowly nodded, teeth ground together. “Right. Yes.”

No,” Mor breathed out softly, realizing what Rhys meant. “You don’t think he would go back there?”

“Yes.” Lucien pressed his mouth together, then nodded slowly. “Rhysand is right. That’s exactly where he’d go. Go get your mate. We’ll be there in Velaris when you get back ” He put a hand on Rhys’s shoulder and hesitated. He opened his mouth as though he would say something, and then simply turned and walked down the hallway.

They could hear from behind them the sound of the other High Lords trying to put their meeting back together. 

As the doors slowly closed behind them, Rhys saw two things; Helion staring after Lucien with uncharacteristic worry on his dark face, and Eris slumping back in his chair, ignoring the anger of the other High Lords, sliding a small silver ring with a blue stone set in it off of his finger with a look of disgust and self-hatred. 

Rhys had seen that look on his own face in the mirror before, every damn day for fifty years. 

_ Cauldron, I need Azriel to help me put this together.  _

Rhys fought the terror that threatened to overtake him and followed his mate Under the Mountain.


	14. The First Time Since

It took Rhys longer than he expected to be able to make himself walk back down there.

He’d winnowed to one of the entrances and simply stood, his heart a hammer that threatened to break open his chest, looking down into the dark. He couldn’t move. It could have been a few minutes or an hour. His instincts warred between never ever ever stepping foot down there again and the push of the mating bond to go down, after the bit of Tamlin that called to him, endlessly called him, just by existing in the world. 

The thread between them pulled Rhys this way, inexorably, a pressure like a hand at his back that pushed him forward.

_ Save him save him save him _

How many times had he had that thought, down here, when he could do nothing at all? When she’d torn Tamlin’s skin and his head and his heart to shreds and all he could do was watch? How many times had Tamlin been there when he woke up from nightmares, to hold his face and remind him what was real? How many times had they rescued each other so far? 

How many more?

If it were him down there, Tamlin would follow. He knew that, as sure as he felt his own blood in his veins; Tamlin would square himself up for the fight and walk down into the dark for him, track him like a hunter would.

But he also knew his mate would stand here, just like this, fighting the same warring desires to go after him or to run far away.

He’d been telling the truth when he spoke to the other High Lords. He was no less damaged than Tamlin - he’d simply had the time to learn to push it down further. Part of daemati training was all about learning how to shut off traumatic memories and lock them up where they could not find you. Here, though, they all - fifty years of them - threatened to bash their way out.

He’d  _ known  _ Tamlin wasn’t ready for this. He should have left him at Rosehall and gone by himself. Tamlin would have been angry but… How had he not argued that he needed to change his clothes? 

Why hadn’t he noticed Tamlin was projecting strength he didn’t feel?  

Why hadn’t he taken Eris’s voice away before he could knock Tamlin so far off balance? But that made him think about what he’d seen inside Eris’s head, again. He’d have to talk to them about it. And he needed to get back to Hewn City to speak with Lyria and her son again, and he needed…

All of those thoughts were just distractions from the real problem. 

_ Why had he not listened to the voice inside of him that had said to protect Tamlin from the other High Lords, too? _

He was going to  _ slaughter _ Eris for this. He’d seen the light in the other male’s eyes, and there was a euphoria there that Rhys was afraid of and enraged by in equal measure. In Eris’s face he’d seen the same dark joy as he had so many times in Amarantha’s, and even with what he’d found inside his mind… well. Not all of what he’d seen in Eris’s face could be explained away with that discovery.

He had rejected Mor, tossed her out like trash, but then he'd said _I never touched her_. And been angry at the idea that Rhys would overstep and start giving his mate limitations on who he spoke to. But also he'd been  _thrilled_ to see Tamlin ground underneath his words.

_ Stop it. You’re just thinking like this to avoid taking the first step and to make it easier to hate him. Go down there. Bring your mate back out. _

When he tried to step forward, though, his feet wouldn’t move. He was the High Lord of the Night Court, and he was scared.

Fifty years. For fifty years he had never left here without her orders or her approval, without having to trade some piece of his dignity, pride, or will to live. When he’d gone to Calanmai the final time, mostly just wanting to see what was left of Tamlin before his time ran out, when he’d seen Tamlin’s mortal girl and realized her open mind was so much like the dreams that had kept him breathing some nights Under the Mountain… 

That had been the first moment of hope, hadn’t it? It just hadn’t seemed like it could be a coincidence that Tamlin would finally find some mortal and it would be a girl he’d had dreams about.

He and Tamlin had been connected, even then, he thought. By the thin thread of a doomed mortal’s life, when all the other connections were severed.

The Cauldron had a pretty morbid sense of humor.

When he’d gotten permission to go see Tamlin at Calanmai, he’d had to promise to bring back details of what Tamlin did. She had an endless hunger for Tam’s misery, after all, and he’d had to agree to let her use her clumsy stolen daemati power and rifle through his memories of it. 

He’d watched the fury grow in her as she saw Tamlin happy, smiling, playing with the musicians and enjoying the night, seemingly unaffected by the hourglass that was running slowly out on his freedom. 

He’d paid for his time spent away from Under the Mountain, every single time. That night had been one of the worst. Angry at Tamlin but still constrained by her own curse, she’d had no one to take that anger out on but him.

He had hated the High Lord of Spring so much for it. He’d  _ hated him  _ for  _ so long.  _ It had seemed like every single thing that wrecked Rhys’s life could be laid at Tamlin’s feet. Tamlin had been the one to seek him out at the party, Tamlin had pursued their friendship,  _ Tamlin  _ had told his father where Rhys’s mother and sister would be and hadn’t been smart enough to realize why his father wanted to know,  _ Tamlin  _ had rejected Amarantha over and over again. He had only been trapped there underneath her because she did not have Tamlin first. 

Rhys’s hand closed slowly into a fist.

He’d been being led, hadn’t he? Rhys had never been superstitious like some of the fae, but he had to admit, it definitely seemed like the two of them had been drawn towards each other over centuries. It had been he and Tamlin who kept messing up and missing each other.

_ One step at a time, Rhys. Go back one step at a time. No matter how far down you go into the dark, she will still be dead. _

He took a deep breath, and, with the unreality of it pressing on his chest like stones, stepped over the perimeter and started walking down the tunnel, calling up a faelight to dance ahead and light the way. 

Tamlin’s life thrummed along their mating bond, the slightest reminder as he walked that he was getting closer. He could have tracked him by the bond across the world and back, and it was a little frightening how intensely he understood that if he needed to, he would, without hesitation.

_ “I could come live with you when you’re High Lord,” Tamlin had said cheerfully one day. “I could stay in Hewn City.” They were staying in one of the cabins Rhys’s father kept scattered throughout the Night Land mountains, where he’d all but snuck him under his father’s nose.  _

_ Tamlin didn’t know about Velaris. That secret he’d kept, at his father’s order. Rhys would have loved to take him there, but he understood why he couldn’t. Not with Tamlin’s father always looking for a weakness to manipulate, something he could use to gain power and influence over Rhys’s family. _

_ Try as he might, Tamlin was a shit liar, and Rhys knew he couldn’t trust him to keep the secret if his father got suspicious. And sooner or later, if he was around Tam long enough, he’d decide to let him in on it just to see his face when he saw how wonderful the city was. Tamlin was a security threat just by being his friend, which Rhys’s own father told him over and over and over again. _

_ Tamlin was curled up on a couple of cushions on the floor, reading a book by the fireplace, his hair already starting to grow longer, a shaggy mess that hung in his eyes, still damp from the bath he’d taken an hour ago, wearing a loose long-sleeved shirt and pants that Rhys had dug out of a closet somewhere. He looked amazing, if Rhys were honest with himself, which he was currently trying very hard not to be. _

_ He was on leave from his father’s troops but had chosen not to go home to Rosehall, had asked Rhys to come up with a place to be instead. When asked why, all Tamlin had said was, “It’s not a good place to be right now.” But Rhys knew how the Spring Court worked and knew that what he wasn’t saying was,  _ I’ve pissed off my father and brothers again, and I’m tired of getting the shit kicked out of me when I am not allowed to fight back.

_ “You can’t live with me, the Court of Nightmares would eat you alive,” Rhys said, but stopped laughing when he saw the slightly wounded look on Tamlin’s face. “Oh. You’re serious?” _

_ “Of course I am. I’d be useful. I’m good at being a soldier, in any case. Maybe I could just serve in the Darkbringers?” _

_ “I don’t think that would be a good idea. The Darkbringers mostly just serve my uncle, anyway, and he’s… just trust me, it’s not a good idea. I’d rather you stayed at court.” _

_ “I could be your personal guard,” Tamlin suggested, face brightening. “It’d be like in a book.” _

_ “The Soldier Who Stole Me Away From My King or some such nonsense? You're going to be my dashing knight?" _

_ Tamlin’s face went bright red and he bristled. “That’s not what I meant.” _

_ “No, I… I was just kidding, Tam. Calm your face. One of my brothers will probably do the guard thing," Rhys said with a laugh. “Cassian, I guess, most likely. I don't think Azriel would be any good at that." _

_ “Sure, but they're your brothers, they're biased. You need a personal guard who isn’t.”  _

_ “Are you saying you’re not biased about me?” _

_ “Fair. I could be someone else’s guard, too,” Tamlin said thoughtfully. _

_ “You think I’m going to let you be friends with anyone else up here? They’re all snakes. Whether you like it or not, you’re stuck with me. Well, and Ella.” _

_ “I do like it,” Tamlin said softly, with the guileless sincerity that Rhys was still as fascinated by as he’d been the day they met at the party. How did any fae manage to make it to adulthood without learning to be good at duplicity? “That’s why I want to live here. I want to be stuck with you. Um… and Ella.” _

_ “Don’t say things like that. Fae will get the wrong idea.” _

_ “What wrong idea would they get, Rhys?” Tamlin asked, tilting his head, watching him with wide green eyes. _

_ When he asked questions like that, Rhys could never tell if he was being innocent or if he knew  _ exactly  _ what he was asking, trying to bait Rhys into some specific answer. Rhys sighed and took the safer route of simply ignoring the question. “Why would you ever leave Rosehall? You love it there.” _

_ “I love the house and the lands,” Tamlin said, looking towards the window, where heavy snow fell outside. “I like Spring. I like my mother. But…” He trailed off, frowning. “I don’t know. Amarantha’s back in our court and Father is always angry when I refuse to see her. Then my brothers caught me growing  things again, and that ended the way it always ends. I’m tired of Mother having to intervene. I’m a grown fae, and I’d rather live with you and Estrella. At least your sister likes me. I think I could win your mother over if she’d stop leaving the room whenever I enter it.” _

_ “To be honest, I think she leaves because she's afraid she’d like you, too,” Rhys said with a laugh. “My father has told us all to hate you, but you see that Ella and I aren't particularly interested in that plan.” His father disapproved, Rhys thought bitterly. Because he had the wrong idea about their friendship. _

_ Didn’t he have the wrong idea? It was just a friendship. _

_ “Besides that, I told you to stop letting them see you use those powers.” Tamlin was clearly the true heir to his father’s court. He all but shone under his skin with a power that was waiting to wake up, and he understood the land. It spoke back to him and answered his call. The people of Spring responded to it. Everyone but Tamlin and his family had long since accepted that he would end up the High Lord in the end. If he wasn’t more careful, his brothers were going to kill him to ensure he had no chance.  _

_ So they kept him with the troops and at the camps. His father, who thought he was a weak and inept youngest son, kept him ignorant, and if his father had died tomorrow, Tamlin would have had no idea how to be a High Lord successfully. _

_ If that happened, Rhys thought, if anything took Tamlin’s father out of the picture and left him struggling to understand his new role, Rhys would just have to make sure he was right there with him when it happened.  _

_ “It just comes so easily to me,” Tamlin said with a shrug. “It feels like it’s what I was meant to do. Just… just watch.” He looked over at Rhys, thoughtfully, and then put both hands on the floor. From the bare dead wood planks, a branch began to grow, a living thing. It twisted out, covering itself slowly in bark. Green buds appeared on the branch, sprouting one by one. Leaves opened, dark and glossy-rich green on the top and a dusty brown on the bottom, catching shimmers of flickering light from the fireplace. A single bud grew larger than the others, with white edges along the green, and when it opened it was a cream-colored flower with large petals, soft as a kiss, a single flower larger than his hand. Tamlin leaned over, picked it off the branch, and then held it out. “Take it.” _

_ Rhys moved over to him, taking the flower from his outstretched hand. It would take centuries for him to let himself remember the way his hand sparked when their fingers brushed, what that had probably meant. In the moment, he didn’t really think about it at all - things like that happened with Tamlin. It was just because he was so different than everyone else Rhys dealt with on a daily basis, or so he told himself. It was just because he was so guileless and someone totally unlike anyone else in Prythian. _

_ Rhys had learned to take it in stride and not think about it too much, to ignore the way his parents and Cas and Az thought about Tamlin and instead think about the way Ella’s cold purple eyes warmed when Tamlin entered a room, too. Ella was the best judge of character he’d ever met, even as young as she was. If Ella approved of their friendship, that was what mattered. “Who is this for? Ella? She’s not much for flowers, but maybe if you had one carved into a knife-” _

_ “It’s for you, you imbecile,” Tamlin said with a laugh. “I don’t give gifts to Ella, I can never figure out what she actually wants. She just tells me to buy gifts for you instead. I could grow a tree right in the middle of the snow. And it would grow for me, and bloom. I could give you a whole new forest, if you wanted.”  _

Had he been trying to tell him?

_ “You can’t risk it,” Rhys said, pitching his voice a little lower, trying to sound kind. “Not when you have so much to lose.” _

_ “I’m not going to stop,” Tamlin said, his jaw set. “They can throw me out with the soldiers all they want but it doesn’t really change what I am, what I… want.” He looked back to Rhys, hesitated. “I want to be the Spring. I don’t care what there is to lose, Rhys.” He smiled, that genuine vibrant smile that had been such a breath of fresh air the first time they’d met, and Rhys felt his fingers close unconsciously, crushing the petals of the flower. “I want to be what I am. I want to find those things that have withered and died after long winters and bring them back to life.” _

Rhys thought of the nightmares, those Under the Mountain and the ones he’d had since. He’d woken up more than once to Tamlin holding onto him tightly as the wind whipped around the room, so cold it must have felt like knives on his bare skin, the two of them wrapped up in Rhys’s darkness. Tamlin never tried to escape it, only pressed himself closer, a warmth at Rhys’s side. He’d come back to himself to find Tamlin whispering nonsense to him, things that weren’t even really sentences, just shreds and bits of feeling and worry and love, holding him until he woke up.

After fifty years he’d been as good as dead, thanks to Amarantha, had shattered a little more each day. Tamlin had brought him back to life.

While he’d been daydreaming, remembering Tamlin’s smile and that flower, he’d been walking. Each step was steadier than the last, as he saw the ruins left of hell on earth.

He was so far into the tunnels he could no longer see the door or even a hint of its light. Rhys ignored the fear that tried to chase him back out, the voice in his head that screamed to run and run and fly and never come back here, never step down here again, and kept going. 

The air was stale and oppressive, slightly dusty-smelling, like an old tomb. No one was here. He passed empty rooms, the doors left open, everything inside tossed around and looted or destroyed. In some rooms there was nothing left but the frame of a bed, and even the mattress had been taken.

He knew these routes by heart. He’d spent years of his life just walking the tunnels, learning them inside and out, and he could have taken this path with his eyes closed and still ended up right where he planned to go.

The faelight bobbed ahead and sometimes Rhys thought he could hear a faint and ghostly laughter, but no one was here. He was just hearing the ghosts in his own mind, the laughter of the court as they’d ruffle his hair or run a hand up his back, their jeering whispers when Amarantha would force him back out into the throne room right after being with her without letting him clean himself up first. 

The whole time he’d just kept Mor, and Cas, and Az inside of his mind, the people of Velaris who continued to live out their innocent, happy lives, and he’d been able to endure, for their sake. 

The throne room.

He stood at the wide double-doors that opened into it, cracked slightly. He could see a little bit of smudged darkness through that crack and nothing more. He pushed the door open, listening to it squeaking softly on its hinges, and sent the faelight in to light it up.

There was a flash of bright white as the faelight bobbed near the ceiling, lighting the entire room.

Amarantha’s throne had been destroyed. Carved into and broken apart, only the barest hint of the frame remained. Someone had scrawled words in the floor around it, but they had faded and Rhys couldn’t read any of them without getting closer than he was comfortable with. Beside it, Tamlin’s smaller chair was totally unscathed, still in place as though he would reappear any moment and be ordered into it, a thin layer of dust the only thing sitting there now.

The cavernous room was empty. There was no eternally-burning fire in the fireplace. There were some old bones staked to the wall, some pitiful fae that had angered her and she’d had hung there to rot. The bone still remained.

There were more bones, in the corner in a small neat pile, that Rhys did not look at. He told himself it was probably an animal that had come in here and died at some point, but even he knew that was a thin lie at best.

Mostly, the floor was empty and dusty. There were reddish stains, spots that looked like rust, here and there. A table in the corner with one chair bashed to bits and the other missing a leg, lying forlornly on its side.

_ “Have you ever played it?” Tamlin asked where they sat at the table, tilting his head at Rhys, his miserable eyes brightened only a little by how perilously drunk he was. Rhys had watched him drink more in an hour than he’d eaten in days, and he said nothing. He knew why. _

_ Amarantha had remembered Tamlin’s mother’s birthday, yesterday, and had called him alone to her rooms. He’d returned at dawn, bloodshot eyes rimmed in red, unwilling to speak.  _

_ She always loved to find out what days mattered most to them and ruin it. _

_ Tamlin had slept like a stone the whole day, not even moving from the position he’d collapsed into on the bed after his bath. Rhys had done something incredibly idiotic late in the day, watching him sleep, and had leaned over to kiss his forehead. _

_ Tamln’s eyes had flown open as he flinched in his sleep. Those green eyes were hazy at first. “Shit, I'm sorry,” Rhys had said softly, moving to pull away. _

_ Tamlin had grabbed him by the arm and said softly, “Please don’t stop.” _

_ He’d kissed his mouth that time, and felt Tamlin slide a hand up into his hair, arch his back to press against him. Then, with a look of absolute intensity, Tamlin had pushed him onto his back, sliding on top of him.  _

_ After, they'd taken a bath and pretended it hadn’t happened, which was basically how they dealt with everything to do with each other these days.  _

_ There was a dark spot in Tamlin’s head, where Rhys had put the torture Amarantha had forced him to inflict after he’d taken responsibility for the escape plot. Even Rhys didn’t dare look back into the box he’d locked all of it up in.  _

_ Too much poison from Amarantha wrapped them up in each other. He wasn’t sure if there would be anything without that poison, but he’d begun to wonder, and maybe hope. They hadn’t quite figured out how to get beyond her, yet, but Rhys thought he could try.  _

_ So here they sat at a table, the two of them not talking about it but they never left each other’s side, either. Bedding each other when Amarantha left them alone, watching each other when they were with her, healing each other after hard nights. He sat watching Tamlin and thought that he wanted nothing more than to ask him if he thought there would be more of this after her, too, or if that was just something they were saying - doing - to each other to survive. _

_ Another thing he had learned was how fragile Tamlin was. _

_ “No,” Rhys said, looking down at the game board Tamlin had unfolded before them. It was round, and he’d laid a series of colored stones that made a triangle pattern on four sides, with single stones that met in the middle. “I think this is a Spring game. I don’t think you ever taught me. How do you play?” _

_ “The goal is to get rid of your enemy’s stones until he is at your mercy,” Tamlin said, looking down. “You can jump over any stone that has an empty spot on the other side. Like this-” He demonstrated, leapfrogging a stone with another one. “Usually it’s four players, but maybe you and I can just play two apiece? The goal is to make it to the edge of the board on your enemy’s side with more pieces than he has.” _

_ “We could ask someone else to play with us?” _

_ “Rhys, we hate every single other person here.” _

_ “Fair point.” He wasn’t sure when Tamlin had started using his nickname again, when he had started feeling comfortable enough or stopped loathing him or whatever had made him change it, but he had to admit it felt wonderful to hear him say it. Especially in bed. “I feel like I’d end up playing against myself and winning,” Rhys grinned at him, trying to get Tamlin to smile back, telling himself to stop thinking about the way the other male bedded half the time like a rabid animal and the other half gentle as a lamb, trying to get his mind out of the gutter. _

_ When you never got to choose when or how you went to bed with someone, whether it would hurt or how much, there was something pretty heady about having a person you  _ could  _ choose, just one person who did not want to hurt you at all. Knowing that if he told Tamlin he didn’t want to, the other male would just accept it and go back to his books or change the subject to hunting or some other fool thing Rhys barely understood… it was hard to think about anything else.  _

_ Rhys hadn’t exactly been chaste before. But with Amarantha there was so much pain and never the option to say no, and… knowing he could just tell Tamlin no if he didn’t want it and it would be respected… it made it much, much easier to say yes. It made it hard not to. _

I just want to remember that I get to choose, sometimes, even if it’s only with him.

_ The other male only snorted, a little faintly. His voice was slurring more as the night went on. “Honestly, with my luck, you probably would. You know what I hate, Rhys?” Tamlin looked around the throne room with the odd, slow-moving gaze of the very, very drunk. He went to put his hands down on the table and inadvertently slapped it with a thump, wincing slightly. “I hate that getting drunk makes it easier to bear but then it takes so much longer.” _

_ “I know. I’ll play the game with you, Tam.” _

_ Tam smiled, a little bleary-looking and red around the eyes still. They had only made it about halfway through before, in the midst of contemplating his next move, Tamlin slumped forward with his elbows on the table, putting his hands over his face, clumsily knocking some of the pieces around on the board and onto the floor. _

_ “Tam?” Rhys leaned over, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Spring?” _

_ He looked up, squinting at Rhys through his fingers, and smiled sadly. Rhys thought about Tamlin’s mother, had a sudden clear memory of a woman he hadn’t really thought about in hundreds of years, her long golden hair always caught in a single long practical braid down her back, a woman who could hunt as well as her husband and who had been a better trapper besides, although Tamlin’s father had been so insecure no one ever acknowledged the fact. She’d been the only member of Tamlin’s family who did not disapprove of his relationship… his  _ friendship _ with Rhys, who had always turned her clear green eyes on him with affection, so like Tamlin’s own eyes, and seemed to see who he really was.  _

_ She’d cornered him in the kitchen once when he’d gone to get he and Tamlin some lunch during a visit, had watched him in silence for a long time. When he’d finally asked her if he could do something for her, she had smiled, sadly, a smile so like her youngest son’s was now. She had said, in her quiet voice,  _ He’s always been a mystery to us, but not to you, hm? Don’t leave him here alone.

Lady Gwendolyn? _ She had already been gone, halfway down the hall, by the time he could make himself move after her. Azriel saw true things before they happened - and he had always wondered, ever since the night his father had slaughtered Tamlin’s parents in their own bedroom, if Tamlin's mother had had the same gift. Maybe she'd seen her own death and had been trying to ask him not to leave or be afraid when Tamlin stood up from his father’s body, if she’d wanted him to try and stay. _

_ He should have. He should have dared Tamlin to kill him, or kiss him, or do something when they stared at each other over the slaughter. He should have said  _ it's just us now, we have to stop this,  _and instead they'd just decided to loathe each other for centuries._

_ Funny how time had made the memory more pristinely clear, not less. Yesterday had been her birthday, and Tamlin had spent it bleeding underneath Amarantha.  _

_ Tamlin looked up at him, hopelessness a weight that threatened to pull them both under the water. Rhys felt as though there was no air around them to breathe. He said quietly, “I just- I miss-” _

_ “I know,” Rhys interrupted, worried about what would happen if he let Tamlin keep going down this line of thought. “I miss mine, too.” _

_ Tamlin held up his glass a little too quickly, some of the liquid sloshing around inside and splattering onto the game board. He didn’t seem to notice, slumping back into his chair, pulling away from Rhys’s hand.  _

_ “Let’s have a toast,” He slurred. _

_ “I think you need to stop,” Rhysand said, reaching out to take the glass from him.  _

_ Tamlin jerked it closer to himself. “No.” _

_ “I said put the fucking drink down, Tamlin. You’ve had enough.” _

_ “Fuck you,” He spat. “You don’t get to stop me, Rhysand. It's not like you ever listen when I say 'stop' anyway, though, is it?” _

_ “That's not fair. We both know I don't have a choice.” _

_ Tamlin laughed, harsh and humorless. “You never listened when you were doing something that hurt me before, either. You had a choice then." _

_ “What is that supposed to mean?” _

_ Tamlin glared at him, and the weight of that stare made Rhys gradually look away. “You know what it means, Rhys.” _

_ “Fuck off with this pitiful act. If I don't get to tell you to stop, who does, then?” Rhys hissed back at him. Tamlin was so damn good at baiting him. “Who gets to stop you? Point me at them and I will get them right the fuck over here to shut this down.” _

_ “Oh, go to hell, High Lord." _

_ “After you." _

_ "Go fuck yourself." _

_ "I'd rather have  _ you _ fuck me." _

_ "You- I just-" Tamlin growled and threw the game board, Rhys watching impassively as the pieces scattered throughout the floor. _

_ "Good job, Spring. You've destroyed one of the few things that entertained you." _

_ "I wish I could destroy another," Tamlin snapped, glaring into his eyes. _

_ "I’ll take that as a compliment. I do my best to keep you distracted. What is this, Tam? You’ve been here less than a full year. Why do  _ you _ get to be weak and I have to keep being strong?” _

_ “You’ve been the one to tell me a thousand fucking times that you’ve always been stronger than I am. You showed up at the Spring Court just to brag about it before Feyre died, don’t you remember?” _

_ “I didn’t actually intend to be  _ right about that,  _ I was just being cruel-” _

_ Tamlin put down his glass and clapped his hands with insulting slowness. "Congratulations, Rhysand, you really nailed the cruelty. Really just got that bit down pat, don’t you? You’ve made an art of it!” Tamlin leaned forward and his eyes were half-gone and furious, the gold glowing even as the green seemed darker, nearly black. “You’re so fucking  _ good  _ at being cruel to me, aren’t you? Threatening me in front of a woman I love, making me beg for her life on my knees. You knew - you knew I loved her with one look, didn’t you?” _

_ Rhys swallowed. “Yes,” He said softly. “I knew.” _

_ “I would have done anything to save her and you knew it, didn’t you? You knew you could have told me to do  _ anything,  _ even right in front of her and Lucien, and I would have if it would have meant you didn’t tell-” _

_ “Stop, Tamlin,” Rhys said, voice faltering. “Don’t think about that. I didn’t know-” _

_ “Didn’t know what?” _

_ Rhys gave him a level, even stare. “I didn’t know how things would end. If I could take it back, I would. I didn’t know.” _

_ Tamlin snorted. “I don’t think so. Cruelty’s in your blood, High Lord. Just like everyone else in Hewn City, but better, right? You’re a damned artisan.” _

_ “Tamlin…” _

_ “We were  _ friends _ , Rhysand.” _

_ Rhys gritted his teeth against the use of his full name. “I’m not the only one who ruined that, Tam, and you know it.” _

_ “No, you weren’t, that’s true. I know I did my part. But damn, Rhys… you couldn’t have stopped at killing my family? Did you not think that was enough to have your revenge for me forgetting for just one second that my father was obsessed with destroying yours? Did you have to whore yourself out to the one person on this earth I truly hate for fifty years while you were at it? You listened to her curse me, you  _ listened  _ to that sickening gods-damned speech she gave about what she wanted to do to me for telling her no, and the next words out of your mouth were to try and get into her bed?" _

_ "It's not like I planned it." His voice was starting to get louder. “She told us she was going to hurt all our courts and I thought if I could get on her good side… I was just trying to do right by my people-” _

_  "Oh, take your noble intentions to hell, you piece of shit! You used to be my best friend. Rhys, you were the first one I told when she tried to buy me. All about freeing the mortals back in the day, weren’t you? Put their freedom above your precious people. But not me. No, you weren’t worried about freeing  _ me.  _ Knowing that she planned to chain me up so I could never run away from her, knowing that she was toying with me with a curse I couldn’t best, you still went to bed with  _ her _ -” _

_ “Don’t you fucking dare!"  Rhys shouted and turned the table over, scattering game pieces and shattering his own empty wine glass on the floor, ignoring the way courtiers - and Amarantha - turned to stare. He leaned over, lowering his voice so it wouldn’t travel all the way to her, breathing hard, grabbing Tamlin by the front of his shirt and pulling him half out of his seat. “You know what she does to me - to us - is not sex. Don’t you dare try to make it sound like I wanted her. Don’t you dare call it anything other than what it is. You  _ know  _ what it is!” _

_ Tamlin paused, and all the anger drained out of him all at once. Rhys laughed, bitterly, to see the sudden slump. Tamlin’s temper had never changed, a thunderstorm that blew up and then was gone as soon as the damage was done, damage he couldn’t take back. He swallowed, hard, and Rhys let him go, let him fall back into his chair. “I know. I’m… I’m… I’m sorry. That was too far. I was just trying to hurt you.” _

_ “Congratulations,” Rhysand said evenly. “You succeeded.” _

_ “How are you so fucking strong?” Tamlin’s eyes closed, and Rhys saw the effort it took for him to open them again. _

_ “I did what I had to do to protect the ones I love,” Rhys said softly, pitching his voice low, trying not to sound as angry as he was. “I take strength from their safety. You did the same thing. You’re doing the same thing.” _

_ “I don’t have anyone to protect,” Tamlin said miserably. “I thought I would send her away and go to Amarantha knowing she at least was safe, but… who is even left alive to care? Who even loves me?" _

I do. Damn it, Rhys, he needs someone to care about him, just say it.

_ “You have Lucien,” Rhys said softly. “You’re protecting him.” _

_ “Lucien. Ha. Did you have a female back home, Rhys? Is that who _ you’re  _ protecting? Did we all miss out on one fucking bizarre Night Court wedding?” _

_ Rhys, thrown off balance by this line of questioning, only shook his head. _

_ “Are you going to have one? Can I show up in the middle and object, Rhys? Winnow in and introduce myself right as the bride comes down the aisle?" Tamlin laughed, and the sound was blurry and bitter and sad. “I'll wear that green shirt you hate and tell everyone you can't marry her because you’d only be thinking of me." _

_ "Tamlin-" _

_ “Because my heart is sworn to you?” _

_ “No.” _

_ "Oh, fine. Can I at least tell them that you can’t marry her because I’d die of jealousy and I know your body better by now than any female ever could?” _

_ "Tamlin, stop-" _

_ “Could I give her some pointers on how to use her mouth the way you like? How you don’t like things to go too fast, you always want to start with-” _

_ “I. Said. Stop.” His voice was ragged, but Tamlin’s eyes were alight with some sickness, his own self-loathing married with the liquor, a fire Rhys could not put out. _

_ “If I had just told you back then, would we be in this mess now, d’you think?” _

_ Rhys blinked in confusion. “I don’t know, Spring. I… don’t know. What are you talking about? Tell me what?” _

_ Tamlin gave him a long stare, and then laughed. "What's her name, anyway? You probably drown in lovers." Most of the time his laughter was something Rhys spent all day hoping to hear. Right now the twisted sad sound made him feel sick. "Funny how all the ones I fall in love with die." _

_ “You have had exactly one lover die, Tamlin, stop being dramatic.” _

_ “Who are you to lecture anyone else on being dramatic?” _

_ “No.” Rhys said a little heavily. “I don’t have anyone either. I’m trying to protect my brothers, my family. That’s all.”  _

_ “Maybe if I just stopped trying to hold onto myself, it would get easier,” Tamlin muttered. He was breaking down, babbling nonsense. “It’s my fault for wanting you instead. If I just let myself go, just give up-” Tamlin was porcelain cracking apart before his eyes, he was shattering.  _

_ “It’s not your fault.” What could he even say at this point? Tamlin was so lost in his own self-pity and the liquor that nothing seemed to be reaching him. _

_ “I’m so glad you still had people,” Tamlin said, the switch from rage and spitting venom to sudden sincerity so abrupt Rhys felt like he’d lost his balance. He leaned forward and put a hand to the side of Rhys’s face. “You know, to go home to. When you left my house. I’m so glad someone was there to pick you up and help you mourn them. All I had was Eris.” _

_ “Eris Vanserra?” Rhys let out a breath. “No wonder you’re fucked up.” _

_ Tamlin laughed again, but halfway through it turned into a sound much darker and sadder than laughter. He put his hands over his face, leaning over himself, nearly in half. “Don’t close your eyes,” Rhys heard him mutter to himself. “Don’t close your eyes. Don't close your eyes." _

_ “Tamlin…” If Tamlin broke, it would be as good as being here alone again. Rhys felt his heart jump with panic at the idea, beating in his throat. But there was something else, too - he just didn’t want Tamlin to hurt like this. It was odd, to have a selfless thought after he’d spent so long trying just to think of himself and get through the day.  _

I want to be the reason your life gets better for once.

_ “I want. To do. A toast.” Tamlin grabbed at his glass, enunciating each word too much, overcompensating for the way the liquor had slurred his speech. He sat back again. “Will you toast with me, Rhys?” _

_ “Yes,” Rhys said heavily. “Do your toast. But no more after that, and we’re going back to our room.” _

_ “Oh, it’s  _ our _ room, now,” Tamlin said. “Perfect. See? What female could compete with me now? Anyway. My toast. To our mothers,” he declared, holding the glass out in no particular direction, drinking the rest of the wine down. Some of it spilled down his shirt. “May your mother be proud of you for putting your people first, every time. No matter what I say, Rhys, I’m proud of you for that.”  _

_ Something in Rhys’s heart twisted, wonderfully, in a way he’d always hoped to feel. “You are?” _

_ “Of course I am. You were always going to be an amazing High Lord. You were always going to be the best.” Tamlin looked up towards the ceiling, the dark stone that curved over their heads. "And may  _ my _ mother, who for the record  _ loved you, _ forgive me for not just letting Father give me to Amarantha when she asked the first time.” His eyes were dark. "Maybe Mother would still be alive if I had." _

_ “I would never have let her keep you like that,” Rhys said, surprised to discover he meant it. _

_ “Wouldn’t you have?” Tamlin looked at him and the emptiness in him was a canyon. “Wouldn’t you have just let her take me and counted your blessings it wasn’t you?” _

_ “Even when I hated you, Spring, I’d have moved hell and earth to save you from her. And back then, when we were young… no, Tam. I’d never, ever have let her just take you away. No one deserves to suffer like this. That’s enough.” He grabbed Tamlin by his arm, yanking him to his feet, where he stumbled and would have fallen straight onto his face if Rhys hadn’t held him up. “You’re not doing the self-pity party tonight. It’s exhausting, I don’t have the patience for it, and I won’t let you.” _

_ “Why not?” Tamlin slurred, trying to pull himself free, pushing against Rhys. “Why can’t I? What’s the point of anything else?” _

_ Rhys only rolled his eyes and called over his shoulder, “Your Majesty!” _

_ “Yes, Rhysand?” Amarantha drawled from her throne, where some poor hapless courtier was feeding her bits of fruit wrapped in bacon. One of the Hybernian mess, if Rhys didn’t miss his guess - she was a legend over there, subjugating an entire nation beneath her trickery and deceit. The King of Hybern, who should have been furious at her for going renegade and simply stealing an entire nation from him, had even sent her a commendation. _

_ “I want to take him Above the Mountain. Tamlin is drunk and embarrassing himself. I beg your permission to take him out for some air.” He didn’t even have to grit his teeth against the words any longer. They came as naturally as breathing. _

_ “No one goes up there, Rhysand,” She drawled. He dragged Tamlin over to her, and the other man stumbled behind him, upright mostly because of Rhys’s sheer willpower. He gritted his teeth and pushed Tamlin to the ground in front of her throne, glaring up at her with all the fury he could pull out of himself in his violet eyes, glowing slightly in the dim light. _

_ “I need to take him somewhere other than here,” He said softly. “Above the Mountain still belongs to you, so it’s not really like going outside. He can’t keep doing this, Amarantha. I just want to let him see the sky. Look at him.” _

_ “Are you suggesting he did not enjoy my present to him for his mother’s birthday? I so enjoyed Lady Gwendolyn’s company,” She said, but she turned her head. She didn’t want to look down, he thought, didn’t want to see Tamlin’s face right now - which meant he could use this. He’d have to use Tamlin’s grief, have to be the snake they all thought he was, and the guilt of that was a sharp pain in his chest.  _

_ Everything about living here was about balancing how much it would make him hate himself with whether or not the end result was worth it. Being a snake was worth it if he could see Tamlin smile tonight. _

_ “True,” he said putting his High Lord’s mask on, letting his slow, wicked smile curve across his lips, leaning down to put a hand on Tamlin’s messy yellow-gold hair, pulling his head back so Amarantha was forced to see his face, wrecked with drink and grief and hurt.  _

_ “Hey, fuck you-” Tamlin seemed to be working so hard to simply keep himself from collapsing that he didn’t even try to move from his hands and knees on the ground.  _

_ “But, your Majesty,” Rhysand crooned, “What good is a toy that breaks too soon?” _

_ She raised an eyebrow and smiled at him, the smile that said,  _ we’re the same in the end, you and I,  _ and Rhys shoved down his self-loathing and kept his own smile plastered on. She just barely flicked her eyes down at Tamlin and then back up to his. “He’s mine. I can break him however and whenever I want.” _

_ “Yours alone?” Rhys laughed, the cruel laughter he’d spent years perfecting. “I’d say we share his body fairly evenly these days, wouldn’t you?” The court laughed and Rhys wished for perhaps the ten thousandth time he could simply bring the mountain down on all their heads. _

_ Amarantha, though, visibly brightened. She loved when Rhys played along, pretended he wanted her, pretended to be in on this with her rather than simply another captive. She adored seeing him pretend at heartlessness and cruelty, fit himself into a mold more like hers. It was the main way he managed to get her to agree to any request. “That’s true,” She said, tapping Jurian’s eye thoughtfully with one fingernail, a soft clicking sound that seemed to carry loudly through the room. “He makes better noises for you.” _

_ “Only because you’ve commanded I know his body so well.” She was still watching him, smiling just slightly, considering the performance. He swallowed hard and pushed a little further. “Maybe it’s weak of me, but I have to admit I’ve gotten… attached.” Another low rumble of laughter from the court. Maybe he’d get the chance to kill them all soon. “I'd hate to lose him,” He said, dropping his voice into the low, husky tone she loved so much, letting Tamlin’s head drop. “Just when I’ve trained him so well.” He slid his fingers down through his hair, over the side of his neck, drawing one finger along his collarbone as he leaned over him where he knelt on the floor, slowly standing back up straight and pushing Tamlin’s head against the side of his leg, hand in his hair like you might pet a dog. He kept his eyes on Amarantha the whole time.  _

_ “Stop,” Tamlin groaned, going to push himself away. _

_ “Stay right where you are,” Rhys snapped. “I gave you an order.” _

_ Tamlin froze, his face reddening even more as the court laughed, and Rhys just had to hope he was drunk enough not to remember this tomorrow. _

_ She leaned forward, slowly, resting her elbows on her knees over the heavy, gilded fabric of tonight’s black dress. Her crown slipped down her forehead, just slightly, and Jurian’s finger swung from its chain. Jurian’s eye, in its eternal place on her finger, was looking at Rhys with something he thought might be calculated interest. “Why do you give a damn, Rhysand?” _

Because you pushed him too far this time. _ “It’s been nice to have company in hell,” Rhys said with a smirk.  _ Because if I can’t figure out how to put him back together, I don’t know what will be left. _ “We'd both regret losing the way he suffers under us.”  _ Because I’m in love with him, you fucking harpy, in love with his stubbornness and his mess, in the way he loves to read and won't shut up when he's mad. I love the way he always wants me to bite his neck and laughs with me in the bath- “ _ Look at him. Please let me get him out under the sky, your Majesty.”  _

Because I haven’t told him that I love him yet and I'm worried you'll kill him before I figure out how.

_ Amarantha hesitated, looking down at Tamlin where he crouched on the floor, and something in her smile gentled, became sincere and sweet. Rhys thought he could have torn her eyes out, if only he weren’t so wrapped in her magic. “Granted, Rhysand. Take him up there. I'll leave you two to each other tonight - and you  _ will  _ fuck him." _

_ The court laughed and Rhys's smirk was painted on. "If Tamlin spends any time at all with me," he said in the silky smooth voice he knew Amarantha liked best, "you can assume that's already on the schedule." _

I hate you. I hate all of you and I hate that you think Tamlin and I are here for your entertainment and it’s my fervent cherished dream to murder you all very, very slowly. I hate that you take something he and I have and turn it to shit. I hate you-

" _Just_ _come back down before dawn," Amarantha drawled, counting off on her fingers, "and fuck him. Oh, and you don’t leave the mountain. Those seem like easy enough rules to follow.” He waited for her to add more conditions, but… nothing. He stared in open disbelief until she said, “Well, Rhys darling? Shouldn’t you be doing the thing you just asked to do? I’ve given you leave. Go.”_

_ Tamlin was nearly too drunk to walk, so Rhys dragged him by one arm up the tunnels, the one set of tunnels no one ever walked, the tunnels she’d forbidden them all. Even she didn’t go up above the mountain.  _

_ “Head’s spinning-” Tamlin muttered. “Stop, you bastard, give me a minute-” _

_ “No. She might change her mind. Keep going.” _

_ It was steep, and hard going, and Tamlin was just short of a dead weight by the end, but they made it, thanks to the ground twisting beneath them with old fae magic designed to make them move faster. _

_ Finally, there was a door. Just one, and it was barely tall enough for fae to get through, a roughly carved wooden slab with a handle on it that was older than every building in Prythian. They said that when the world was made, this door had been in the mountain when the first of the fae came out of the Cauldron. It had not been made. It simply was. _

_ He opened it and dragged Tamlin out onto a small, natural stone ledge. “Here,” he said softly. “Here. Look up, Tamlin.” The air was cold this high up, hopefully bracing the drink in Tamlin’s veins towards sobriety, but there was a hint of unnatural warmth surrounding them. He could see the wind whipping powdery snow through the air, but here it was calm.  _

_ And the sky above them was a riot of life. _

_ Tamlin looked up, Rhys’s arm around his shoulders to keep him standing. Rhys turned to look at him in starlight so bright that they might as well have been next to a lamp. Tamlin was looking up at a version of the sky he’d never seen before, wide-eyed with astonishment like a child, face flushed. “What is this?” _

_ “Under the Mountain used to be sacred,” Rhys said softly. “They thought it was because of the tunnels and all of it, but I think… I think it’s because of what’s up here.” _

_ They were looking up at the stars. Stars by the millions, of every conceivable brightness, some of them tinged blue or orange or red. There were constellations Rhys knew and thousands more he didn’t. Some of the stars moved in the sky through the year, while others stayed the same. There was a sudden bright flash, a star screaming by with its tail of ice and fire, arcing through the whole dark bowl above their heads until it disappeared before a horizon that, this far up, was gently curved in every direction. _

_ Beyond the stars, further than their light, were the spirals and whorls of other places, what Amren sometimes called the galaxies, twists of white like a kind of powder. He could see them, just faintly, so far away it couldn’t even be contemplated.  _

_ Above their heads was what the Illyrians knew as the White Bridge, where those who died in battle and women who died in childbirth, which was its own war to win, walked to find their way home. You could see the Bridge clearly, as if it hung only feet above your head, from every mountaintop in Prythian. It was a stripe of brilliant cold white, a galaxy that split the sky in two above their heads, stars that were so clustered together that they seemed like solid brightness instead. _

_ “What is this?” Tamlin asked again, more softly. The starlight that lit his face made it seem pale and ghostly, danced off his scars. He started, faintly, to smile.  _

_ “My mother told me once that stars are doors to other worlds,” Rhys said thoughtfully. “I thought it was just a thing you say to children, but...” _

_ “There are so many worlds other than this one,” Tamlin breathed out. He turned that smile on Rhys, who swallowed hard against the urge to grab him and hold onto him and never let go. “Do you think they’re better worlds, or worse ones?” _

_ “I don’t know,” Rhys said, honestly, and he very nearly told him right then. Why he waited until Amarantha had dumped him nearly dead inside his door, he’d never know. But he'd wanted to, the first time, this night with the stars. _

_ “Did you bring me up here to cheer me up?” Tamlin blinked, the cold chasing away some of the bleary drunkenness, replacing it with a kind of wide-eyed clarity. “All that back there…  that was just to make me feel better?” _

_ “Yes.” Rhys wished somehow that Tamlin could be given one word but hear three others. _

_ “Rhys, I…” Tamlin turned to look at him, frowning slightly, eyebrows knit together. _

_ “What?” _

_ “I think you always put me back together,” Tamlin had said in a strange, distant voice. “The things I just said, I didn't mean...” _

_ “I know.” _

_ "I'm sorry." _

_ "I know you are." _

_ Tamlin looked away. “You know, it’s funny.” _

_ “What is?” _

_ “When my family died, I kept wishing you were there. I walked around Rosehall for days, looking into their empty rooms and trying to hate you, and at first I just… kept wanting to show you that I didn’t look all that bad in black, after all.” _

_ “Tamlin…” He pulled him close by the arm around his shoulders, pressed a kiss to the top of his sweaty golden hair. “I’m sorry. We should have refused them their murders.” _

_ “Yes.” Tamlin leaned into him, closing his head, putting his head into the crook of Rhys’s neck. _

_ “I should have stayed and dared you to kill me.” _

_ “I wanted you to stay with me.” _

_ “I wanted to stay, too.”  _

_ That was one more thing they didn’t talk about later. _

Rhys left the throne room and walked on, heading down a tunnel he knew very well. He passed the broom closet where Tamlin had pulled him in and thought of the way he’d dropped to his knees, begging as Amarantha’s demanded lust had lit him up like fire, and let his fingernails trail across the door just a little. He hadn’t known Eris was listening. If he had…

No. He probably wouldn’t have changed anything. 

The doors had mostly been broken down or left open here, too. This place was empty. Abandoned, and rotting. Looted and left alone, the desecrated grave of a tyrant with no body to bury, once they’d finished burning her. This sacred place that Amarantha had defiled would never be holy again, Rhys thought. The fae would not come here on pilgrimages, like they once had. But the sky above the mountain still let you see all of creation. 

He had to walk for a while to get where he was going, but finally he found it, the door to his own room, closed tightly. 

There were footprints in the dust on the floor.

_ “Rhys!” Tamlin took him in as he entered, after a night he’d angered Amarantha through some stupid mistake. The bath was already drawn and warm, dinner (or breakfast?) waiting for him, one of Tamlin’s books open to a page about midway through, laid out on the table. _

_ “I swear to the Cauldron, that woman is running me ragged,” Rhys said heavily. He winced at a sharp pain in his head, putting a hand up and starting a little when his palm came away red with blood. “Well, fuck.” _

_ Tamlin sighed, softly. “What happened?” _

_ Rhys gritted his teeth and looked away, staring at the spot in the wall where he liked to pretend he had a window, on darker nights, when he needed something to grab onto or he’d lose his mind. “Our illustrious queen decided to remind me that ‘no’ is no longer allowed in my bedroom vocabulary. My mistake.” _

_ Tamlin sucked air in through his teeth, sympathy written across his face. “I can imagine how well that went over.” Tamlin touched the side of his forehead, just slightly with his fingertips, and Rhys winced as pain was a starburst behind his left eye. “She hit your head?" _

_ "In several locations, yes.” _

_ "... the rest of you?" _

_ “... is also bleeding. It's fine. I survived. Day by day, right?” _

_ “Right. Day by day. I’ve got your bath ready. Let me heal you.” He held out a hand and Rhys took it, letting the other male lead him towards the door to the bath, fighting the aches that threatened to make him stumble, holding on to his seemingly effortless grace only through immense willpower. “You can go in by yourself. I’ll leave you alone.” _

_ “Please don’t,” He said, softly, and Tamlin’s eyes met his, as his grip tightened on his hand. “I don’t want to be alone.” _

_ For almost fifty years, he had dragged himself back to his room. Healed wounds piece by piece, soaked in hot baths, read his books and eaten and done it all in silence, telling himself he wanted this, he could handle it. That the quiet was better than the noise inside his head. _

_ The truth was, he had just wanted a place where he could wither away each day a little more in peace. But he had stopped withering, and had decided to hold on a little harder. _

_ Tamlin looked suddenly nervous. "I’ve been wanting to ask…” _

_ “What?” He felt a bit of blood running down the side of his head, over his cheekbone, down his face, dripping soundlessly onto the floor. "Shit. I forgot how much head wounds bleed." _

_ “Never mind." The nervousness was gone, replaced by a squint as Tamlin, who had all but been raised by his father's soldiers, pushed back a bit of Rhys's dark hair, looking over the gash with military efficiency. "It’s a long cut, but it’s shallow. It’s more blood than injury. I’m not good at healing, but I can heal this." Tamlin sighed, closing his eyes. He struggled with it, his own power did not heal well, but the wound closed slowly and left only the blood behind.   _

_ “What were you about to say?” No one had been concerned about him being injured in fifty years - it was hard to believe the worry on the other male's face. Hard to imagine that it was real.  _

_ Tamlin shook his head. "Don’t worry about it." _

_ Rhys was a little frightened of how it felt to have someone here to put him back together every time he broke. He had made it this far dreaming of Velaris and the family he’d left behind, but that dream had gotten thin over the decades. He’d worried he couldn’t hold himself together much longer. But now… _

_ “Do I not look good in red?” Rhys asked, and felt relief when Tamlin laughed at the joke and reached out to unbutton Rhys’s hastily-thrown-back-on shirt. His eyebrows knitted, taking in the wounds across Rhys’s torso and chest. Rhys leaned over before he could second-guess himself and kissed his forehead, right there where the furrow was, and Tamlin blinked, looking up at him. _

_ “You probably think you look good in everything.” _

_ “Are you saying I don’t?” Rhys watched the other male take his own looser sleeping shirt off, pulling it over his head, watched the scars as they caught the light.  _

_ “I never said that.” _

_ “Right, because you  _ can’t  _ say it. Because I  _ do _ look good in everything.” _

_ “Rhys, for the Mother’s sake, is now really the time? Why couldn’t I have been locked in a room with a selkie? At least there’d be less screeching.” Tamlin was fighting back a smile, and gradually losing the battle. “Take your shirt off.” _

_ “Now who has a one-track mind?” _

_ “I never said you have- it’s for the bath, damn it! For you to get in the bath!” _

_ “Oh, sure, that’s your official explanation, but we both know it’s because you want to put your hands on me.” _

_ Tamlin growled in frustration, throwing his hands in the air, stepping up to slide Rhys's shirt off his shoulders himself. “I swear to all that’s holy in Prythian that one day we’re going to get out of here and I’m going to go sit somewhere  _ quiet  _ and away from you for the rest of my life.” _

_ “Hey,” Rhys said softly, and Tamlin stopped, fingers still on one of the buttons of his shirt. They met eyes, and what he saw in Tamlin's was exactly what he'd hoped for. "Are you really going to stop talking to me again?” _

_ Tamlin snorted, a lopsided smile on his face as he looked back down. "No. I want to see you out there, without hating each other, more than anything in the world. But could you agree that you’ll stop endlessly telling everyone how good-looking you are for at least ten minutes?” _

_ “Can’t make any promises, Spring." _

_T amlin laughed, without quite looking up. "I'll just have to get used to it, then, I guess."_

_ He thought he could survive hell just fine if Tamlin was right here with him. _

Rhys took a deep breath.

All of that was gone. She was dead, and it didn’t matter that he was here. She would not resurrect just because he walked around empty hallways and stepped over bones. There were no courtiers and even if there had been, he could have slaughtered them now. He could have finally made them all regret all the times they’d laughed at him or touched him against his will while Amarnatha smirked, pleased that one more piece of his dignity was gone.

There was no one here but he and Tamlin, in this desecrated place. There was nothing in that throne room but broken wood and the chair Tamlin had once sat in. Her throne was gone. Every inch of her left here had been shredded.

He wondered what her room looked like, and simultaneously thought to himself that no power on earth could have forced him to go look.

Rhys knocked on the door to his old room, his heart still hammering against his chest, trying to make its way out from the inside. There was no answer.

The mating bond between he and Tamlin thrummed. His mate was on the other side of this door. 

Rhys knocked once more. “Tamlin?” Still no answer.

He took a deep breath, put his hand on the doorknob, and opened the door to his room for the first time since her death.


	15. The Dark of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know this is early, but I have family in town so I won't be able to post on the usual day. The next update after this will be on Tuesday, and then we'll be back to weekly (Tuesdays) for now unless I get another burst of inspiration and write multiple chapters at once again!

Rhys opened the door to his old room and for a second, the world around him reeled, spun off-kilter, tipped to the side until it seemed like everything, mountain and all, would slide along the ground and fall off the edge of the earth.

The room was totally untouched.

Nothing was out of place. The table and chairs he had eaten so many of his meals at still sat in the corner, there were two sets of extra clothes still folded on a small dresser and, he thought, the rest of their clothes probably still in the drawer. Even the books were still on the bookshelves. He could have named them all by heart, including the missing fifteen spots on the shelf, where Tamlin’s mother’s personal books had once been.    


The books Amarantha had forced him to burn right before Tamlin’s eyes, and they had learned to simply forgive each other for everything.

There were even place settings on the table, Rhys realized with a start, and the book Tamlin had been reading the morning before Lucien had come back and Amarantha had announced her intention to invade Velaris was still open on the table, weighted down to hold the page with a small empty bowl, exactly the way he had left it.

The only difference was that there was no fire in the fireplace, only a couple of dim faelights that worked all on their own, and a layer of undisturbed dust covered everything in the room except for bootprints where Tamlin had walked. The bootprints in the dust, which seemed to stumble and scrape unevenly along the floor, went into the bathing room at the back, where the open doorway showed only pitch-black nothing on the other side, with what looked like a flickering bit of light coming from somewhere within.

Whatever ruin the escaping servants and guards and dissidents had made of Under the Mountain, they’d left his room alone. Had that been meant as a thank you for being the reason they were let out in the first place? Or had it been out of fear of what he might do to them if they didn’t?

_ I’ve seen what he does when someone fucks with his things,  _ the sea captain had said when he’d sent that strange wisplight back to Tarquin. Deserved or not, he had a reputation for wickedness. Maybe the fae who had been trapped here had avoided taking anything out of this room, or destroying it, because they were scared of him.

_ Good,  _ Rhys thought, but it rang hollow. He had more power than any High Lord in a thousand years and all they had seen of him, the fae trapped in this place under Amarantha’s rule, had been the cruel actions of her loyal right-hand man. All they’d heard were the rumors he’d built up himself about what went on in Hewn City.

He’d never shown any of them anything but soulless evil. He’d given Amarantha’s creatures, her servants and her slaves, every reason to believe he was by her side of his own free will. Then, when Amarantha’s newest captive had turned out to be his mate, he’d turned on the queen they had believed him to be so loyal to and slaughtered her with his bare hands. That was the story they were telling each other, wasn't it? They  _ should _ be afraid of him.

It should be  _ comforting _ that they were afraid of him, but it wasn’t. His reputation had built a wall that separated him from everyone else - and even after she was dead, they’d rather believe that he had used daemati powers to make Tamlin love him than that he might actually just… be worthy of love.

_ (did you think you weren’t broken?)  _

Her voice whispered, silky-smooth, in the back of his mind. Or was she speaking in Tamlin’s, and he was close enough to hear her again?

“I know I am.” He wasn’t sure if he said the words aloud or just thought them. 

He walked towards the bathing room as though he were sleepwalking, each step pulled slowly out of him against his will. He set his shoes carefully in the prints Tamlin had left, trying not to disturb the dust any further, not quite sure why he didn’t want to.

Tamlin had gone back home, as though none of it had ended and they were still back there, down in the dark, begging for scraps of permission to go out into the light. This was the second time he’d had to go after his mate. How many more times? 

_ (just once more after this, for old times’ sake?) _

Was it his own mind or Tamlin’s that heard her? 

The bathing room was dark, but he could hear the sound of dripping in there somewhere, slow and steady, the slight echoed chime of water dripping into water. 

Rhys stood in the doorway, staring into the black. The world tried to tilt again, and he slammed one open palm hard against the doorframe to keep himself standing, locked his knees. “Tamlin?”

_ Was she even dead? Had he dreamed it? _

If he went back the way he’d come, would the tunnels be warmly lit with faelights again? Would there be courtiers hurrying back and forth? Would she be sitting up there on an unbroken throne, beckoning him to kneel before her?

_ (did you think you could shrug off what we had together? like i was nothing to you?) _

No. She was dead. Her throne had been bashed to bits. She’d died in the street like a common criminal. He’d torn her heart out himself, heard it thump to the ground, seen her collapse onto her knees and then on her face, all her wicked plans come to nothing. He’d watched her heart burn with Lucien’s fire until all that was left was the smallest bit of ashes.

“Tamlin?”

No answer. 

“I’m starting to get tired of running after you. Maybe next time I’ll make you run after me. It might be nice to have someone run after me for once. You can shut me out, but you can’t close down the link between us. The bond is tricky that way.” 

He took a step into the room, sending up a faelight to the ceiling, willing it to be warm and inviting rather than cold bright light he’d sent up in the throne room.

Tamlin was sitting at the edge of the bathing pool, totally dressed, with his legs in the water. He had his elbows resting on his knees, slightly curled over. The light shone around the edges of his skin, the yellow spring sunshine glinting faintly off the water, and Rhys could see that Tamlin was holding a black rose in his hands. It was a deep violet purple with black edged petals. His eyes were distant, focused, glowing just slightly in the dark.

“Tam?”

“Sssshhhh,” Tamlin said, softly, without looking up at him. He unmade the rose, until it was simple dust, and then remade it again.  _ I am concentrating,  _ his voice said along the bond,  _ on not losing my mind. _

_ Is it working? _

_ Mostly. I can't close it up. I can still hear her calling me. She won’t stop talking. Am I awake now? Did I wake up? _

_ You were awake the whole time, Spring. Let me close it away. _

_ It could come back out. _

_ I know. _

Tamlin held still and Rhys was careful, took his time. He couldn't heal. He couldn't fully rehabilitate. He could only lock her away, as best he could. 

Tamlin held still for him, and this was not his mate curled up screaming for mercy in front of Amarantha's throne. This was the two of them, sitting alone, together.

_ Please tell me _ , Tamlin said softly, _ I at least dreamed the part where I broke to shards in front of every other High Lord. _

_ So... I have some bad news about that... _

Tamlin looked exhausted as he brought the rose back to life again. “There go all my hopes for regaining respect,” He said softly.

“Do you need them to respect you? Do you care?”

Tamlin shook his head, but then said hesitantly, “They respected my father.”

Rhys snorted. “You are not your father. Tam… why did you come here?”

Tamlin finally looked at him, the gold flecks in his green eyes glowing a little still in the dark, the barest hint of golden sunshine lining his skin. Rhys felt a rush of worry and fear and love from his mate, was nearly bowled over by it. 

Rhys was relieved that he could no longer hear him screaming in there. Just Tamlin’s skittering, half-formed frightened thoughts, the sense of spring trying to regrow a burned-out wood. 

“I thought I was sleeping.” Tamlin’s fingertips ran over the violet edges of one of his rose’s petals, looking at it with total concentration. “When Eris asked me what was home, I… couldn’t remember. All I could think about was that I had to get back before Amarantha knew I was gone. You came down here to find me?” 

“I’d go anywhere to find you, Spring.” Rhys crossed the rest of the way to him, crouching next to him and pushing a bit of blond hair back out of his eyes. “Even here. Even after you took my powers like that.”

“I’m... sorry. I don’t know how I did it. It just happened.”

“Well, you’ll have a lot of questions to answer with the other High Lords. No one knew you could do that.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You  _ did do that. _ ”

“I know… but I can’t.” Tamlin slowly held up the black rose, and Rhys took it, carefully placing his fingers around the thorns. “Can we call this an apology present?”

“Do you intend to make roses for all the High Lords, or just me?”

Tamlin’s smile was a bit more sincere this time. “Just you.”

“Good. I like being the one with all the roses. Don’t apologize. I should have realized something like this would happen. We pushed too far, too fast. I-”

I used to be angry,” Tamlin said thoughtfully. “All the time.”

“I don’t think anyone in Prythian forgot your temper tantrums.”

“I should have gotten angrier back there, at Eris. Why didn’t I?”

“I don’t know.” He sat down next to Tamlin, looking over at him. “But once we get you back, I think you and I are going to have a very long conversation."

Tamlin looked away. "About what?"

"We need to talk about what I don’t know about your history with Eris Vanserra.”

"No. What happened between us isn't anyone's concern but mine."

"Usually I would agree with you, but that history has something to do with today, so… I want to know. I want you to trust me enough to tell me."

"What if I say no?"

"Then I won't ask any longer - but I think something about Eris made you more vulnerable today, and I want to know what it was.”

Tamlin blinked, turning back. "You won't be happy to hear it."

"I don't care."

There was a beat of silence, as heavy as a weight on Rhys’s chest, and then Tamlin pulled his legs up and out of the bathing pool, dried them with a thought, pushing Rhys back with his hands on his shoulders, taking care with the bandage still wrapped around his healing knife wound, sliding a knee on either side of his hips and leaning down over him.

The rose was crushed between them as Tamlin kissed him, but Rhys didn’t feel any thorns.

There were sparks - there were always sparks - but this was desperation, not exactly true desire, and Rhys knew the difference between the two. Tamlin was reminding himself that they were both here. They’d woken up from nightmares like this so many times…

“I didn’t know any other way to feel anything,” Tamlin said softly, sitting back up, his weight a pleasant pressure against Rhys's hips. “That’s what happened between Eris and I. I stopped feeling anything for about ten years, after... everyone died. With Eris, I felt something."

“Is that it?”

Tamlin pulled away, a little, closing his eyes tightly. “No. That's not it."

“We have to get out of this place,” Rhys murmured, pulling Tamlin’s head down to rest on his shoulder, putting his arms around him, putting the crushed rose to the side. “You don’t need to be here. She’s dead and we’re alive.”

“I know,” Tamlin said, softly. “I kept thinking that when I came back - after what just happened - that you wouldn’t be there when I got back. That when you saw...”

“Eventually, we each have to start believing all the nice things the other one says, don't we?” He tightened his arms, felt the other man settle into them, a comfortable warmth, slightly sweaty, still shaking a little bit. The stone floor was cold against his back, and he felt pressed between Amarantha’s tomb and Tamlin’s living warmth.

“What else did Tarquin say?”   


“I don’t know, Tam. I came right here after you. I’ll talk to him later.”

“Eris did that on purpose,” Tamlin said, softly. “Didn’t he?”

“Sort of.” Rhys swallowed, hard _. _ “I got a look inside his head. I’m not saying Eris didn’t enjoy every fucking minute, but also… he was  _ afraid _ .”

“He was? Of what?"

"That's part of what we're going to talk about."

“I guess I know why he was so nice to me when my parents died, now. I thought maybe he wasn’t as bad as the rest of them, but he’s so much worse. He wasn’t nice because he cared. He was nice because-”

“I don’t think every good thing he said was a lie,” Rhys murmured. “Some of them, yes, but… not all of them. I don’t think he was in charge of today _. _ "

“Who was?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I want to talk to Lucien. And later on, you and I can beat the life out of Eris together _. _ ”

Tamlin laughed, a breathless sound. "You promise? Be careful with that kind of bedroom talk, Rhys."  He bit down gently on the side of Rhys’s neck as though holding him in place on the floor, then slowly pushed himself up until he was sitting back on Rhys’s hips, looking down. Rhys pushed himself up on his elbows, looking back up at him. “I wasn’t ready, Rhys. I'm sorry I embarrassed you.”

“ _ I’m _ sorry,” Rhys said softly. "I should have known better. I don’t give a damn what any of them thinks of me, or us. I’ve never given a damn about any High Lord but you." 

Tamlin laughed, and Rhys felt his heart leap at the sound. “You  _ hated me _ . You hated me right up until-... when did you stop?”

“I don’t know. Sometime between the second and third time I took you in her bed?”

“How romantic,” Tamlin said dryly. "Those times happened within an hour of each other."

“You asked. Besides, even when I hated you, I gave a damn. Hate still counts. I would have been furiously bored if I couldn't spend half my time messing with you during court functions any longer." His shoulder ached, but he chose to ignore it, focusing instead on the strange foggy smile on his mate’s face.

When Tamlin’s hands went to undo his pants, Rhys looked down at himself and then back up, sharply. “Tamlin… here?”

“Here,” Tamlin said firmly. “Don’t get up.” 

“The floor is not exactly the most comfortable place in the world for this,” Rhys said, softly, his heart beating in his throat. “And this isn’t exactly the best time. Lucien’s worried sick about you, and ready to strangle me.” 

“He can wait a little longer,” Tamlin said in a hoarse, slightly husky voice. “He’s used to worrying about me, it’s essentially his job now. Do you know how I got back out of my own head, Rhys?” Tamlin pulled his own shirt over his head, tossed it to the side. 

“No, I don’t. How?” Rhys asked in a whisper. No one was down here. It was only the two of them in this whole mountain. But here… “Tamlin, this is going to bed in a graveyard.”

“So?” Tamlin leaned over, unbuttoning his shirt for him slowly. “Maybe I like graveyards.”

“Maybe I don’t.” 

Tamlin only raised his eyebrows, slowly looking down to where he rested his weight on Rhys’s hips, then back up again, moving very slightly. Rhys heard himself let out a rush of breath. “I get the feeling your body likes them more than you admit.”

“My body likes  _ you. _ Stop.” Tamlin hesitated, then reached out to touch his stomach. “I said  _ stop,  _ Tamlin.” 

Tamlin dropped his hands, looking up, something like hurt on his face. "You don’t want to?”

“Not here.” Rhys pushed himself sitting, gritting his teeth against the spike of pain in his injured shoulder. "I can't, not here. Not ever again.” He slid his arms around Tamlin, leaning over to kiss his collarbone, trailing his tongue along a line of scars. “I came here thinking I’d have to save you.”

“No. I pulled myself out this time.” Tamlin’s eyes closed, and some of the light left his skin. He went to touch Rhys’s face and Rhys pulled his head back, looking away and to the side. There was a dangerous sharpness to being back here that heightened the electricity of Tamlin’s weight on his hips where they sat, a knife’s-edge of desire and horrified fear all mixed together. Rhys wasn’t sure how to say that he was afraid that when he went to the door, it might not open again. This place was poisoned, haunted by a half-century's worth of ghosts.

_ Spring… I get to say no to you. _

_ You do. I won’t do any more.  _

_ I get to say no. Down here is always going to be hers. I want to be able to say no. _

_ You get to say no. I hear you. I’m listening. I love you. _

“Do you want me to move?” Tamlin asked out loud.

“No. Just don’t do anything else.” He tightened his arms around him, listening to the continued slow and steady drip of water in the room. “How did you calm yourself down? Tell me about it.”

“I found the waterfall. Do you remember? When you were in my head-”

Rhys swallowed, hard. “I remember.”

“I found it again. Y-you said it was a safe place...”

“See, haven’t I always told you that all you really needed to do was just listen to me?”

“... you’re ruining my point, Rhys.”

“Sorry. Try again.”

“I could hear us talking,” Tamlin said thoughtfully. “I followed our voices, and I heard…”

_  "It's hard to tell yourself you're anything but worthless, after her, isn't it?" _

_ "Yes," Tamlin’s voice had been more breath than sound. "But you're the one who told me that that was a lie." _

"They were coming from the waterfall.”

“What did the voices say?”

He could hear them along the mating bond, his own voice and Tamlin’s. Tamlin’s was hoarse from screaming too much, Rhys’s a quiet, soothing murmur, and he knew immediately what memory Tamlin’s mind had brought to help him find his way out.

_ "Worthless," Tamlin whispered. _

_ "Not that.” _

The first night he’d admitted it out loud, when he’d understood that his warning to Azriel would have been given too late no matter when he’d sent it. That whatever happened from here on out, he and Tamlin would live through it together.

Granted, he hadn’t exactly expected Tamlin to nearly kill himself trying to take Amarantha down, or that he himself would rip her heart out standing in the center of his own beloved city, but… they’d done that together, too.

_ “What if we get out of here, and I want the things she's done to me?" _

_ "You will be able to stop. You don't leave it behind, it's like… a war wound. Part of it sticks with you. But you face it head on, when it hits you, and you do the work, and you heal. We'll heal." _

_ "Will we, though?" _

“I remember,” Rhys said softly. “After Eris’s brothers. She took you away for days and brought you back to me half-dead for healing.”

“I woke up with you cleaning the blood off. I kept following your voice, when you said-”

_ “You are not worthless. You are worthy of love." _

_ "How do you know?" _

_ "I know because I love you." _

“I wish I’d said it earlier,” Rhys said with a smile. 

“Once I followed the voices far enough down, I could see stars,” Tamlin said softly. The green and gold of his eyes glowed so brightly in the dark room, and Rhys felt his own violet light up in response, felt the night start to edge along his skin. The mating bond between them shone bright within his mind and all but sang. There was no woman’s laughter, no voice whispering poison to them now. “It’s dark in here… it was dark down there.”

“I know. I remember. Why did you tell me you wanted me after what I did to your mind?”

“Because you came after me,” Tamlin said casually, as if he and Rhys were simply sitting at the dinner table and not on the bathroom floor of a prison they had escaped together. “That's why I wanted you then. I realized that you came to find me inside my head, that you had spent my time trapped there always coming to find me. That making jokes and saying things to piss me off and healing me… that it was all coming to find me and bring me back. No one had ever cared enough to do that before.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. Not all stars are suns, Rhys.”

“Wh-what does that mean, anyway?” Rhys asked, hearing the echo of her voice from Tamlin’s nightmare. Tam himself didn’t seem to realize he was repeating her.

“There are different kinds of dark inside my head, Rhys. I’ve been running from it but there’s too much to escape, isn’t there? We both have too much to escape. But…” Tamlin slid his arms around Rhys’s neck, held him tightly for a few breaths, and then pushed back, standing himself up and looking back towards the open doorframe. “A lot of that darkness is yours, and I’d choose the dark of you over all the light. Should we go back?”

“Probably,” Rhys said without moving from his place on the floor. “It seems suddenly less pressing for some reason.”

“Rhys, come on.”

Rhys stood, watching Tamlin as the other male moved back into the bedroom, looking around as if seeing it for the first time. “Fine. But we’re going to continue this conversation later.”

Tamlin grinned, and Rhys felt his shoulders relax in relief. 

_ That’s my mate. You always get back up. _

_ It helps when some frankly unacceptably handsome righteous ass won’t stop offering you their hand whenever you get knocked down. _

“Let’s go talk to Lucien. I need to apologize for… what I did back there. Again. Is he at Rosehall?”

“He said he would follow us to Velaris. It’s not like he has to do anything more than walk through a door to cross the distance at this point, anyway.”

Tamlin stood before the door, staring at it for a long moment. Rhys watched him, hearing him through the mating bond as he slowly counted to five, then put his hand out.

For one horrified fraction of a second, Rhys was certain that the door would not open, and they'd hear her laughing on the other side.

The doorknob turned easily and silently, and the door swung open without any resistance at all. 

“No one’s ever going to come down here again, are they?” Tamlin asked faintly, looking down a dark hallway that the two of them had memorized every inch of. 

“Probably not in our lifetimes. I’d bring this whole mountain down if I could.”

Tamlin snorted. “Let me know if you get a chance, I’d like to be there to help.”

* * *

Mor raised an eyebrow from where she sat on one of Rhys’s comfortable chairs in the sitting room in his townhome, nearly choking on her wine. Amren sat in the chair next to her with a book open on her lap, grinning in a way that showed the sharpness of her teeth. 

“What?” Rhys asked, irritably. 

Mor only pointed.

Rhys looked down and realized his shirt was still unbuttoned to his waist, then looked over at his mate. “Oh, shit, Tam, your shirt-”

“I left it Under the Mountain,” Tamlin said, flushing bright red. “I didn’t even notice, I was so happy to leave. I- should we go back?”

“ _ No!” _ Rhys said, a little louder than he intended. He cleared his throat. “I mean… . No. We’ll just get you a new one from upstairs.”

“Oh, no hurry,” Amren purred, silver eyes shifting as she watched the two of them, leaning slowly back into her chair. “I quite enjoy the view. Or at least the embarrassment.”

Tamlin blushed an even brighter shade of red, which Rhys would not have thought possible before this moment. 

“Amren,” Rhys said in warning, “Don’t frighten him.”

“He’s not frightened,” Amren snorted. “And you’re no fun these days, Rhys. You didn’t mind when I scared your last lover.”

“Yes I did! I told you  _ multiple times  _ to stop!”

“Oh, did you?” Amren frowned, tilting her head like a curious bird. “I must have missed that. Perhaps I am suffering some sort of hearing loss in my old age.  Are you  _ sure?” _

“Yes! And then you spent three days staring at her without blinking until she cried!”

“In my defense, that was a  _ purely  _ scientific experiment.”

“... about what?”

“... I was experimenting with how long I could stare at her before she cried?”

“You’re toddlers,” Mor said wearily, putting a hand up to rub at her temples. “I’m surrounded by toddlers.”

“Mor,” Rhys said heavily, “I literally cannot count the number of times you’ve thrown things at Cas, you do not get to stand in judgement here.”

“I miss him,” Mor said softly. “And Azriel.”

“Me, too,” Amren admitted. “But at least they’re happily screwing each other silly by now.”

There was a silence, where Rhys and Mor stared at her, slightly wide-eyed. Amren looked back at them unperturbed. “What? I’m not allowed to  _ be fond of  _ that muscled-up pea brain? He and Azriel are sweet together. I don’t see why you would have a problem with their relationship.”

“That is  _ not at all  _ the issue with what you just said, Amren,” Mor started.

“This is the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had with you,” Rhys muttered, putting a hand up to his head. “And you once made me listen to fifty-seven reasons you had become convinced the sun was a figment of my imagination.”

“I’m just happy they’re happy together,” Amren said airily. Mor snickered behind one hand and Amren frowned at her. “I’ve been waiting for a long damn time for them to stop circling each other.”

“Since  _ when? _ ”

“Since approximately five minutes after I was introduced to them. I figured  _ them  _ out in about five minutes, too.” She jerked a thumb at Tamlin and Rhys. “Honestly, you people should just start asking me for advice on what to do with your love lives, we could have saved a lot of time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for when I meet someone,” Mor teased.

Amren paused, and with a strange look on her face that Rhys could not quite read, said, “Would you? Like me to tell you when it’s the right one?”

Mor blinked, face coloring slightly. “N-no thank you.”

“Where's Lucien?” Tamlin asked suddenly, looking around himself. “I can’t feel him here. Is he at Rosehall?”

“He  _ said  _ he was going to Rosehall,” Mor said, looking relieved at the interruption. “And he would rejoin us afterward.”

“He said that... but he didn’t.” Amren smirked. “Lucien lies, all of the Autumn Court foxes do when their hackles are up, but his sword… his  _ sword _ doesn’t like to keep things from me.”

“Why not?”

“Why, because we’re  _ cousins,  _ Tamlin. Tam. Can I call you Tam?”

“Tamlin is fine.” Tamlin’s voice was a little strangled, and he edged slightly behind Rhys, who tried not to laugh at the idea of the tall, broad-shouldered, muscular High Lord of Spring being intimidated by Amren, who barely came up to his shoulder and probably weighed less than his biceps.

“Fair enough. Tam it is.”

“Amren,” Rhys said, frowning, “I’ve told you to respect the wishes of my mate before.”

“You  _ said  _ I should treat him like family, as I recall,” Amren said brightly. “And this is exactly how I would treat Cassian and Azriel in this situation. Isn’t it?”

There was a moment of silence. “You’ve got me there,” Rhys said finally, and let himself fall heavily into a seat. He winced at the ache in his shoulder and hand. “Someone remind me to stop getting stabbed.”

“I’ll make a note of it,” Mor said, rolling her eyes.

Tamlin moved behind him, rubbing gently at his shoulder with one hand, and Rhys relaxed into the touch as the ache began to fade. “Thank you,” He said, softly. “I’d be even more thankful if I didn’t know you’re only doing this to keep me between you and Amren and not just to make me feel better.”

“I can have two motivations,” Tamlin muttered, and Rhys fought back a laugh.

“I hope you’re not this kind in bed, that would be boring,” Amren said, closing her book and setting it to the side.

Mor turned to stare at her. “You  _ what? _ ”

“Oh, what, like you didn’t occasionally think they should have taken all that hate between them into the bedroom? Hopefully with you in tow?”

“No! I absolutely  _ did not think that!” _

“Pfffft. Your loss. I guarantee Cassian thought about it.”

“He  _ did not!” _ Mor and Rhys snapped in unison.

"Ask him, when he gets back," Amren said smugly. "Oh, better yet, ask  _ Azriel _ if Cas had dreams about it. If his face turns red or Az refuses to answer, you owe me a new necklace."

“Can we get back to talking about Lucien?” Tamlin asked, a little weakly. “I don’t… like when people talk about  _ me _ like this, I d-didn't… please stop. You said his sword told you where he was going? That he’s not at Rosehall?”

“He’s not  _ not _ not at Rosehall,” Amren said, picking a small brown bottle up from the floor near her feet and drinking from it.

Tamlin blinked. “What?”

“Amren, what did I tell you about leaving your drinks on my good floor?” Rhys said, a little carelessly, letting his eyes slowly close as Tamlin’s hands moved to press against the knots of muscle around his shoulder blades. “You’re going to stain it again.”

“Spill blood  _ one time _ , and that’s all anyone remembers,” Amren muttered, taking another drink. 

"I had to buy a rug to cover it up! The stain is _ still there! _ "

“Well?” Tamlin asked. “Where is he, then?”

“Oh, he’s at the Autumn Court.” Tamlin’s hands froze where they were on Rhys’s back. “He went to see his  _ brother, _ ” Amren continued, her voice like a cat drinking cream. “And he doesn’t want us to know about it. Wonder why?”

“Because he’s technically still not received in the Autumn Court?” Mor looked back and forth between the other three. “Maybe he didn’t want word to get out? Or he’s just going to see his mother? It’s a long shot, but is it possible he’s  _ not  _ doing something stupid?”

“No,” Tamlin said heavily. “He’s _ definitely  _ doing something stupid. He’s going to go talk to Eris, I know he is. He wouldn’t… he wouldn’t let what happened today stand. He’s going by himself and he lied to me because… he knew I’d try to stop him and go myself if I knew about it.”

“You can’t go there right now,” Rhys said, frowning and sitting up straight, turning around to look up. “Tam, you’re not going there. You’re not going after him. If you and Eris don’t have anyone around to stop him-”

“No,” Tamlin said firmly. He moved away from Rhys and took a seat himself. Rhys tried not to look at the way the light caught his scars, giving them the same vague golden glow that the rest of his skin got when he was using his powers. The hardest scars to look away from had always been the ones that trailed down below the waistline of his pants.  _ Rhys, you  _ just  _ told him no. Get control of yourself. _

He’d told him no Under the Mountain, though. That wasn’t the same as no anywhere  _ else… _

“I’m not going there, I promise,” Tamlin said gently. Amren, where she sat, only smiled wider and settled herself in, watching them like she was watching a fascinating tennis match. “I’m not, Rhys. The next time I see Eris you’re going to be right there with me again, I promise. I’m not going after Lucien. I am… I am going to trust that he knows what he’s doing. He's good at this kind of thing."

“Good,” Mor said, but her voice was slightly doubtful. “I’m sure he does know. Eris  _ is  _ his brother, after all.”

“I’m not so sure he should be alone,” Rhys muttered. “Eris is a fucking snake.”

“I’ll tell him you were worried about him,” Tamlin said with a grin, some of his humor coming back to him. “He’ll  _ hate  _ that. But… don’t forget Lucien grew up in a household of them. I think he can handle the only one left.” He paused. "Especially if the last one left is Eris."

"Why is that?" Mor asked, her voice cold. If Tamlin noticed, he didn't show it.

"Because Eris loves him.”

Mor rolled her eyes. “I doubt that. Eris is a soulless shit who doesn’t love anyone, never has, and should probably be dumped into a dark hole and never let out.”

“Even soulless shits can love their little brother.”

“He’s absolute pond scum and anyone who  _ likes  _ him has a weakness for toxic sludge.”

Tamlin’s eyes narrowed, a flash of faded anger, and Rhys swallowed back the question he wanted to ask at the defensiveness written across his face. “He has  _ good _ qualities, you know.”

“Oh?” Mor raised an eyebrow, but her jaw was hard and set. “Enlighten me about them.”

Tamlin took in a deep breath. “Well… Have you ever heard the story of why Lucien ended up coming to me after his lesser fae fiance was murdered?' **  
**


	16. Eris and Lucien and a Simple Conversation

_ You are an absolute idiot,  _ the sword said, a ringing song of distaste and annoyance.

Lucien rolled his eyes - or rolled his good eye, in any case, trying to settle himself into a more relaxed position in the chair. He’d never been entirely sure if he  _ could _ roll both eyes, since it wasn’t like you could tell if the metal one moved that way or not. Or at least not without a closer inspection than he ever intended to make of his own face. “You said that already, Ayla. You’ve been like this all day. Do you need blood?”

_ Always, my love. You bleed so well for me. But you’re still an idiot. You shouldn’t talk to him. Go back and wait for your lord. _

“Rhysand and Tamlin won’t come back for hours and Mor and I both know it,” Lucien muttered. “This seemed like the safest way to ask my brother why he’s trying to destroy my best friend. I’ll just wait for the High Lords’ meeting to end and for Eris to come home.”

_ Was breaking into your brother’s bedroom like a mad love-struck maiden really the best plan you could come up with, blood-mate? _

“No one ever said I made _ good  _ plans, darling.” 

_Did you just call me 'darling'?_

"Should I not?"

_No... I like darling._

He’d sent Mor on ahead to Velaris, implying to her that he had to stop back by Spring first. It was hard to hand even part of his responsibility for Tamlin off to Rhysand, but also kind of a relief. Rhysand could go hunt him down Under the Mountain, could be the one to bring him back home. Although with those two together, it’d probably be dawn before they disentangled themselves.

Even if they came back sooner, odds were good he wouldn’t want to be around to witness the almost certainly smug-as-shit aftermath of their reunion.

What he  _ did  _ want to do was grab his brother by the scruff of his neck and shake him until his insane behavior back there made even a tiny bit of sense.

He’d winnowed into the Autumn Court instead and found a couple of the guards who remembered him from before he’d run away who helped him go through the servants’ entrance. While they’d distracted the kitchen staff, he’d snuck around past the larder and up the servants’ staircase without being seen at all. Once he’d made it to the second floor, where the living quarters and bedrooms were, he’d relaxed a little bit.

There was an upside to being famously known among the household staff as the only member of his family who was nice to the help - whether it was running away or sneaking back in, he’d always been able to depend on them to give him a hand when he needed it. 

The last time he’d had to sneak around like this, he’d done it by jumping out his second-story window, rolling and bouncing along the roof tiles like a sack of potatoes, and nearly breaking his legs trying to get from the first floor to the ground. Eris had been at the window watching him go, eyes narrowed and glowing slightly gold in the dark.

He’d been frightened and trying to hide, but Lucien knew, even with this much time and distance between who he was now and the frightened young male that had pounded out of the gate and into the woods as though hell were on his heels, that at least a couple of the regular night patrols had seen him… and had looked the other way, had suspected all along that Eris had planned the whole thing with their help.

There wasn’t one guard that hadn’t heard how Beron ‘toughened up’ his sons. At least some of them had seen what happened to Jesminda, and Eris’s first love. They probably would have helped him run away, if he’d ever asked them directly.

Eris had been the one to suggest running to Tamlin. He’d been the one to buy Lucien the time it took to steal a horse and ride for Spring at full tilt, his brothers behind him, hardly daring to attempt a winnow knowing they would track it. 

They’d tracked him anyway, but taking the horse had bought him time - they hadn’t known which court he was riding for, and everyone had assumed Tamlin was so buried in his self-pity even years - decades -  after losing his family and most of his courtiers that he wouldn’t raise a hand to help anyone else. His brothers had thought he’d ask for sanctuary with Nostrus or Kallias. It had been pure bad luck that they’d found him in Spring as quickly as they did.

They were all dead now, weren’t they? And he’d never felt a thing about it. Not grief, or regret for losing them. Just a flat nothing at the idea that they no longer existed in the world and a vague sense of guilt, the idea that maybe he  _ should grieve them,  _ they had been his brothers, but… he didn’t.

They were gone, and the world was better off for it, and Lucien Vanserra felt absolutely nothing.

He’d taken his time making his way through the cavernous second floor hallways, shifting quietly from hiding spot to hiding spot to avoid the occasional servant or guard he did not recognize.

Lucien was an expert at hiding, especially in his childhood home. He’d had a thousand places to curl up and wait for Beron’s anger to blow over or for his brothers to forget about him, places he’d put his arms around his knees and cried because no one would stand beside him and defend him, not even his quiet, faded, eternally frightened mother. 

There were places he and Eris had once hidden together, as his eldest brother, already grown when he was still a child, had shown him all the best spots one by one. Places Eris had had to learn for himself, when he was the only target for Beron’s rage, and had taught to Lucien, who was all by himself in a different way.

Eris had lost all his kindness over time and he’d never even pretended at being particularly good-hearted. But the way he had treated Tamlin back there, pushing and prodding until he’d completely broken him down… that wasn’t something Eris would do in public. He’d save that for private one-on-one conversations he had time to savor.

Lucien still knew his brother well enough to know that much.

He wanted to know why Eris would do something that seemed so out of character, to understand what had happened to his eyes, and also… maybe spend a little time making him thoroughly regret every word he’d said today.

_ I don’t think this conversation will go the way you want it to go, my love,  _ the sword whispered, a little sadly.  _ You should have stayed to speak with the Night Lord first. _

“I don’t think you get to decide how a conversation will go, and Rhysand is not my keeper.” He’d thought after Beron died Eris would move into the traditional High Lord’s rooms, but… no. That had been the first place he’d gone to check, and had been startled to find the room… empty.

No furniture. No desks. No grand four-poster canopy bed, swathed in the richest fabrics, just one of his father’s many gifts to his mother in his attempts to make her feel better after he’d brought her back, the one time she’d run away. That had happened before Lucien was born, but he’d heard the story often enough. No, there was nothing left in here. Nothing at all. Even the bookshelves that had once lined the walls were gone. Just a bare stone floor and bare stone walls.

You’d never know this ever had been anything but an empty room.

“Well, this is creepy,” Lucien said out loud, and jumped a little as his voice seemed to simultaneously echo and be muffled by the emptiness. 

_ I suppose he did not want to take over your father’s room, then. Or acknowledge that the previous Lord of Autumn ever existed. _

“It’s better this way,” Lucien said tightly. “That bastard who raised us infected everything he touched. My brothers might have been… different… if it weren’t for him. I wouldn’t want to sleep in his room, either. I hope he threw all of Beron’s things on a bonfire and watched them burn.”

_ You do not regret your father’s death,  _ the sword sang.

“I  _ regret _ that it didn’t happen sooner.” Lucien closed the door carefully, checking to see if the coast was clear. “Eris and I might have been friends if it had.” Then he made his slow way down the hall. Eris’s room were at the very end, the largest bedrooms aside from Beron’s. The hallways were silent and still. The Autumn Court’s living quarters had never exactly been  _ bustling,  _ but it seemed emptier than it had been before. Could be the guards he’d run into were keeping the servants back, or they were staying back themselves.

Or had Eris simply let go of some of the household staff? When Lucien was young it had seemed like everywhere he turned, he ran into another servant or someone ordered to keep an eye on him and report all his behavior back to Beron so his father could invent a new punishment for rules he’d only just made up on the spot to say Lucien violated them.

Then again, what did he know? Maybe it had just seemed so busy because he’d spent all his time trying to avoid everyone or sneaking out to see Jes. Then when she died-

His mind skipped away from the thought of her final tortured expression, the way her dying eyes had met his full not of fear but of anger. She’d blamed him, in the end. She’d spat a curse at him with her dying words, the love of his life, cursing him to never forget her or his own inability to help in her moment of need. It wasn’t a real curse, and he wasn’t bound by it, but the words had hit him where he was tied helpless to a chair, forced to watch her bleed out onto the floor, just the same.

As if he ever could have forgotten her. His fiery, funny, stubborn Jesminda, who could spit venom with the best of them but still knew how to flirt and use words as weapons, too, who could hit her targets with a bow from two hundred paces while on a galloping horse.

Cauldron, when that Feyre mortal had shown up with Tamlin he’d been half-convinced Jesminda had simply come back to life.

Lucien paused as he walked past his own door, let his fingers rest against the wood. 

Jes had been right to blame him. It’d been his fault, for being stupid enough to think that just because they hated him, his family wouldn’t care if he went off and lived a life outside of their control. His fault for not being more careful to hide her. His fault for not running to another court with her, not begging for sanctuary for his bride before his brothers had found her.

He hadn’t seen the inside of this room since he’d run away, since he’d left Eris with a black eye and jumped the window, his own hand aching, only to stumble-slide his way down the roof, knocking tiles loose the whole way. The last thing he’d seen of that room was the sight of Eris watching him, a shadowed silhouette, as he rode his stolen horse out the front gate.

He put a hand on the doorknob, slowly pulled the door open, and glanced in.

It looked exactly the same.

Every single detail had been kept exactly the way he’d left it - his ridiculous canopy bed, a birthday present when he’d come of age, back when he’d had some hope that perhaps he could carve a life out of his misery here and should try to make the best of things. The bookshelves were still weighed down with the adventure stories and tutoring books he’d had as a youth, along with the classics his father had insisted he read and he’d mostly fallen asleep staring at.  Even his table and chairs were still there, with a pitcher of water and two glasses laid out, as though he would come home at any moment. A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace, a bit of warmth against the eternal autumn chill that came in through the open window. 

“Did Mother do this…?” His mother, who had only mustered her strength to stand up for him once or twice, and who had said nothing,  _ nothing,  _ when they had dragged Jesminda to the slaughter. Who had said  _ nothing  _ when he screamed and cried, locked in his room afterward for hours. Who had done  _ nothing,  _ his entire life, but apologize for doing nothing, and then do nothing again.

Cauldron, he loved her, though, with all the frightened and terrified love of the child who had just wanted somewhere safe to go. She was as scared of him as her children, in the end, and had the added tie of the mating bond that kept her tethered even when she had once tried, before Lucien was born, to run. Lucien knew the story - it was how he'd been conceived, a child of Beron's rage, and she'd been locked up until he was nearly walking.

He'd felt guilty about that most of his life, and he wondered if she had, too. Had she kept his room like this? Waiting for him to come back?

_ Don’t go in that room,  _ the sword said, uneasily.  _ It feels wrong. _

“Damn straight it does,” Lucien said softly, and closed the door again. “Trust me. It felt that way before, too.”

Eris’s room had been off-limits to him most of his life, unless his brother took him in there himself. Eris had been a grown man for more than a hundred years before Lucien was ever born, in the way of fae, whose long lifespans meant they spaced their children out over a century, sometimes more.

It was hard to tell, just looking, that Eris was so much older. He was older than Rhysand, even, who had been grown and off fighting to free the mortal slaves when Tamlin was new. Age differences meant… less, with long lifespans like that, but Lucien had always felt every single year of the time between them. 

When he opened Eris’s door, he half-expected some magical alarm to sound and alert all the servants and guards to his presence. Funny that he could have been gone so long and still felt so nervous sneaking into his brother’s room without permission. 

Some things about being a child never truly left you. He would always fight the instinct to soothe or deflect a temper, and he would always feel nervous opening a door to a room he hadn’t been explicitly invited or ordered into.

Eris’s room was… well, it was Eris.

His bed was large but not ostentatiously so, casually draped in furs as well as regular blankets, all of them perfectly normal but made of sumptuous, rich fabrics that would have cost Beron a fortune… assuming his father had ever even known about their purchase. Eris had, after all, made it his personal mission to befriend every single one of the financial advisers Beron kept around, and odds were good that they’d simply signed Eris’s purchase orders without a second look. Everything had severe lines but was made of the costliest materials, every edge seemed sharp enough to cut you even as it was hewn from ebony wood or cut from carefully folded metal made by true artisans. Paintings hung along the walls, delicate portraits of men and women he did not recognize and a strange portrait of Eris himself over the fireplace. It must have been painted recently; his brother was painted as a series of angular lines that seemed to run up against each other, only his eyes fully colored in, the rest of him slightly faded or splashed with darkness. On the bed, Eris’s sleeping clothes were laid out for his return, a loose pair of pants and a silk shirt.

“Of course he sleeps in silk,” Lucien muttered bitterly, taking a seat in a chair that was pushed up against a beautifully made circular oak table. He poured himself a glass of brandy from the bottle sitting openly out, and sat back to wait.

_ Why wouldn’t he? Your household’s personal expenses have… dwindled, since only the High Lord and his mother are still living. _

“It’s not  _ my  _ household, Ayla, and it never will be again.”

_ My apologies, blood-mate. Don’t drink too much; you’ll need to keep your instincts sharp. _

Whatever Tarquin had to say, it must not have taken too much longer, because he heard the commotion of the servants and guards busying themselves after less than two hours had passed. He’d spent the time steadily drinking Eris’s brandy until his nerves felt steady as steel, his shoulders and back relaxed, but still in command of himself.

He listened to the servants racing back and forth out in the hall, and eventually heard the maddening click of Eris’s shoes on the floor, the little metal discs he had embedded in all of his shoes so you would always hear him coming.

Why someone who had always been such a snake would give himself such a constant audible presence was beyond Lucien. 

He leaned back, as casual as he could make himself look with a sword still strapped on his hip, glass of brandy in hand, and put a smile on his face. He was just lifting the glass to his lips when Eris opened the door and saw him there.

“Hello, Eris,” Lucien said in a voice like a cat that had cornered its prey.

Eris froze for only a fraction of a second, the slightest flare of those gold eyes being the only thing that gave away his surprise. “Lucien.” His voice was calm, and he cleared his throat. “What an absolute  _ pleasure _ .” He leaned his head back out the door, keeping it mostly closed so no one else could see Lucien sitting at his table, and said to someone on the other side, “I will need no attendance tonight. You may send Galendyl back. Just say I’ve had something… intrusive… come up.” He closed the door carefully behind him. After a slight pause, he turned the lock. “Let’s keep things  _ private _ , shall we? Just between brothers.”

“Fine by me.” Lucien listened to Eris locking the door, locking him in, and did not so much as twitch a muscle. Eris had never been the brother who attacked by force. Eris was not one for swordsmanship, and Lucien had never been worried about losing a physical fight to  _ him.  _ “You should take better care with securing your home, Eris. Ruffians might get in. I’d hate to see you have to deal with the  _ riff-raff  _ that might find its way into your room.”

Eris snorted, leaning his back against the door for a moment, looking Lucien over. A slow, pleased smile grew on his face. “Luce, you’ve always been a sneak.”

“If I’m a sneak it’s only because you taught me to be one.”

“It’s never too early to teach a child of Beron’s a few good survival skills. I never thought anything kept you away from here except how much you hated it.”

“True. I really  _ do  _ hate this house. Where is our mother?”

“Mother stays at an estate out in the countryside right now, taking the air. And… avoiding me." Eris sighed, slumping a little bit. “She has yet to forgive me. I swear, Lucien, she  _ saw  _ how he was with us, and how often we were set to kill each other, and he wasn’t any better to her. When she tried to leave him he tracked her down and locked her up for  _ months _ , the only person she was allowed to see, until you were nearly a year old. He kept her locked up for two  _ years _ . How can she grieve his loss? Do you understand it? Because I don’t.”

Lucien looked away, focusing his eyes on the portrait Eris had of himself, all the angular lies drawing out his thin, striking face. Not handsome, not exactly, but someone who commanded attention of a different sort. “I don’t know. Because they’re mates, I suppose.” He thought of Tamlin and Rhysand and felt a cold stone in the pit of his stomach.    


He didn’t dislike Rhysand, now that he'd spoken to him as something other than Tamlin's worst enemy and Amarantha's creature… but Lucien had seen what having a mate had done to his mother, and he would have done anything to ensure that didn’t happen to Tamlin. Not that Rhys was the type, but… how well could you know a daemati, really? When they could just take anything you learned about them right out of your head and replace it? He narrowed his eyes, metal and good, trying to see through Eris’s facade. “I don’t want to talk about Mother any longer. Who is Galendyl?”

Eris smirked, undoing the buttons of his brocade vest, tossing it onto the bed without even looking. “Aren’t you the curious cat tonight?” He flicked open the top few buttons of his shirt with one hand. If Lucien was a fashionable dresser, it was entirely due to decades spent trying to impress Eris and failing, always failing. His time in the Spring Court hadn’t exactly helped. “I will have you know, little brother, I have taken a lover.”

“Taken one, or ordered someone into your bed?”

“What’s the difference, when you have power and position? I spoke to Galendyl at a gathering recently. I offered, and my offer was accepted. No one was coerced, Luce." Eris paused. "I don't do that."

“Not anymore, at least."

"It may be hard for you to believe, but it didn't take much coercing then, either."

 "Not according to Tamlin.”

“Tamlin is lying,” Eris said smoothly. 

“Why should I believe that?”

“I genuinely do not give a damn if you do. But if he told you I had to  _ coerce  _ him, then trust me… he’s lying. He was a mess, trying to destroy himself with liquor and sex at the time, and I was more than happy to help him out with both."

“I dislike this direction of conversation.”

“Then stop accusing me of things I am not guilty of, and stick to accusing me of the things I actually did.”

“Is Galendyl male or female?” Lucien asked.

_ What does that matter?  _ The sword at his side groused, irritable.  _ That’s not what we’re here to talk about and you know it’s of no importance. Just three months ago, you got curious and asked me to look like- _

Lucien put a hand on the sword’s hilt, wishing it would just shut up. 

Eris did not react but for the slightest pause, but Lucien saw his eyes drop to the sword and back up, mistaking Lucien’s movement for a threat. “I don’t see how that is any of your business.”

Lucien laughed, a little bitterly. Being back here settled the old cruelty back into his shoulders, as weightless as the auburn hair that fell around him, loose and shining. Tamlin had never seen this version of him, and he didn’t intend to let him; life in the Autumn Court was always balanced on the edge of a blade and even if he didn’t like it, it didn’t mean he wasn’t good at it. At least for a little while. And if there was anything Tamlin did not need in his life right now, it was more cruelty, even fake cruelty, from those around him. “It’s not, of course. You’re right, ‘Ris.”

“I generally am. So why do you ask?”

“Because my question isn’t really whether or not this… Galadriel-”

“Galendyl.”

“Right. Apologies to your  _ secret lover _ for maligning their  _ dignity. _ ”

“Luce…”

“I’m only curious about them, Eris.” Lucien gestured for his older brother to have a seat, kicking the other chair at the table out a little bit in invitation. Eris looked… exhausted, for all that he was trying to hide it and doing a fairly good job. There were shadows under his eyes that he hadn’t bothered to glamour away and a hard set to a jaw that had always been delicately wrought. 

“What, watching two High Lords sniff each other like pack animals has you wondering what it’s like to try something a little  _ different? _ ” Eris took the offered seat, not so much sitting in his chair as collapsing bonelessly into it. He raked a hand back through his short hair, one perfect auburn curl falling over his forehead. He took a small silver ring off his finger and set it to the side. “Sorry, Lucien. I’m not exactly up for  _ that  _ conversation. Didn't living with your lord and  _ Rhysand _ teach you how all that works?"

“No. That’s not what I’m curious about.”

Eris frowned, puzzled. Lucien poured him a few fingers of brandy from the bottle and pushed the glass, deliberately scraping it loudly along the wood, in front of him. Eris narrowed his eyes at it, then looked back up at Lucien. “You drink first. From the bottle directly.”

Lucien snorted. “Old habits die hard?”

“Either you keep old habits or  _ you’re  _ the one that dies hard, in my experience,” Eris said smoothly. “Now drink from the bottle.”

“I’ll do you one better.” Lucien poured another quarter-inch of brandy directly into Eris’s glass, then picked it up and drank it, letting the liquid burn down his throat like fire. He slid the drink back to Eris, who picked it up with a faint smile. “There. Proof both bottle and glass are safe. I’d never _ poison _ you, ‘Ris.”

Eris hesitated, just for a second, and then took a drink. “I should trust you,” He said finally, begrudgingly. “You’ve never done wrong by me.”

“No, I haven’t. But that doesn’t make me trustworthy.” Lucien tilted his head slightly to the side, a bit of auburn hair falling against his cheekbone. “You shouldn’t  _ trust  _ me at all. The only reason I haven’t tried to kill you is because if I did, I’d end up having to be lord of this place. I’d rather be dead myself.”

“Oh, Luce. We both know that’s not the only reason you haven’t tried to kill me.” Eris sighed. “Fine. What were you so curious about, then? What makes you sneak into my court to take an interest in what goes on in my bedroom?”

“I don’t care what you  _ do _ in here Eris,” Lucien snorted, faintly disgusted. “Thanks to Tamlin’s inability to find his inside voice when he’s distracted, I know leagues more than I've ever wanted to.”

“Ha. I remember that,” Eris grinned. "He used to have to spell my room-"

“Please never speak again. Your love life, assuming you are capable of any such feeling, belongs to you. I have questions I need answered, and they might as well start here.”

_ Where are you going with this, my love? _

“I can feel love,” Eris said defensively, his gold eyes staring into Lucien’s answering single good eye over the rim of his glass. “I loved  _ you _ , didn’t I?”

“Did you?”

“Luce, don’t you  _ dare _ suggest… You were the  _ only _ brother I loved. I did  _ everything _ for you-”

“No. I’m not having that conversation. I won’t be manipulated like everyone else. You forget - I  _ know you.  _ Listen to my question, ‘Ris. Or the first one, anyway. About Galendyl.”

Another drink, and Lucien thought Eris took a much bigger mouthful of brandy this time. “... ask.”

“Is Galendyl fair-haired?”

Eris’s fingers tightened on the glass and his eyes narrowed. “Lucien, that’s not-”

“Does this new lover of yours have green eyes?”

Eris put his glass down with a thump. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating-”

“You know damn fucking well what I’m insinuating, older brother.”

“ _ Only  _ brother. The others are dead and I would have buried them, but your High Lord left so little for us to recover.”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy that.”

“I did. I really,  _ really  _ did. I only wish I had been able to stay and  _ watch.  _ I’ve always loved to see Tamlin let the fae go and invite the beast in.”

“Did Galendyl serve in the Autumn Court’s troops, Eris? Military build, lots of muscle and time out in the sun? Perhaps he has a difficult family - or a dead one - and was overwhelmed by your  _ kindness? _ ”

“I would suggest you take care with your words, considering you’re trespassing and could be arrested and held in our jail.” Eris’s eyes narrowed, considering him. “Your High Lord couldn’t protect you if you were caught in a court that has not accepted you.” The two stared at each other from across the table, and from a distance much, much greater than that.

“I have said nothing tonight I have not taken plenty of care with,” Lucien said with careful evenness. “And you’d never put me in jail; you’d end up with a rebellion on your hands when the people realized they could simply throw their loyalty behind someone else. Answer my question, Eris. Is your new lover fair-haired with green eyes? Is this Galendyl more comfortable on horseback or hunting than sitting at your dining room table with its myriad pieces of silver? Do you feed him too much whiskey and see what he’ll tell you? Do you get him drunk and ask him what he’ll do?”

Eris relaxed himself, but it took visible effort, and Lucien knew the flashing, dangerous anger in those gold eyes when he saw it. Lucien grinned, feeling suddenly more relaxed than he had since he’d come here in the first place. He didn’t often get the upper-hand with Eris, and he intended to savor the moment. “I never said Galendyl was a ‘him’. Galendyl  _ is _ fair-haired,” Eris said tightly. “I’ll grant you that, and nothing more. You’re making me sound like… it wasn’t like that at all. I never  _ planned  _ on…”

“I thought so. Are you at least as drunk as he is?”

“I always have been,” Eris said softly. “I am not a  _ predator _ , Lucien. No matter what you think of me, consider perhaps that a negative reputation based on rumors can be a form of protection for someone like me. That I did nothing that was not reciprocated and have instead let the person you are referring to right now control the narrative for my own reasons.”

Lucien frowned, unsure how to take that. “Let me ask you another question, ‘Ris. Did you send me to  _ the person I am referring to _ because you were hoping to have an excuse to see him again?”

Eris laughed, the tone carefully casual and controlled. “You are  _ ridiculous _ . You absolute idiot child.”

“I’m right, though, aren’t I?”

“No.” Eris’s reply was flat, and he took another sip of his drink. After a second, Lucien did the same. “You are not. I sent you to him because I thought he was the only High Lord who wouldn’t turn you right back over to Father for some coins or concessions. No one else could be trusted to keep you safe.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. I had been planning for your escape since you were born, I had made a study of them all, of every High Lord. Rhysand didn't give a damn about anything but himself, Kallias, Nostrus, and Thesan would sell you right back without a blink, and Helion was more likely to try and sleep with you and  _then_ sell you back. Tamlin… Oh, Luce. I made  _ such  _ a careful study of Tamlin. He needed you more than they did. You were nearly his only friend. He was alone in his court, and he…” Eris swallowed, putting a hand up over his face. “He understood us. He knew what it was to have a father whose loyalty was not, in the end, to his own offspring. His father, just like ours, would have handed his children over for the right price to those who would pay for their lives or their bodies - or their minds.”

“Eris…?” 

“I knew I could _ trust _ Tamlin, so I sent you to him. He’s never been the sharpest, but you could predict him, and he has always been starving for someone to care. It made him easy to manipulate, and in that moment, I needed someone I knew I could talk into keeping you safe.” His older brother leaned over, refilling his glass, and pouring a couple more fingers of brandy into Lucien’s while he was at it. 

“Thank you,” Lucien said, softly. “You made the right choice with him.”

“I know I did. He adores you, without rationality or reason. You’re the most important person in his life, save his  _ mate. _ ” Eris couldn’t quite keep the sneer out of his voice. “You’ve stood by him when no one else would, and so he would do anything for you. My trust in him was well-placed.” 

“But Rhysand-”

“Yes. That was an… unexpected development. But listen to me, Luce.” Eris leaned over, looking right into his eyes. “All it means is that now  _ Rhysand  _ must protect you, too. I made the right choice, for reasons I could never have understood or seen coming. I was so sure they would never speak without insults and anger again.” A faint frown. “I was  _ so  _ sure I did my absolute  _ best  _ to ensure it.”

“Amarantha threw a wrench in everyone’s plans for their future,” Lucien said, thinking of a mortal girl with golden-brown hair, half-starved and trembling, dragged into Rosehall.

“I’ll drink to that. Besides which, I’m about to marry a female from the Night Court, so Rhysand and I will have to discover a way to put up with each other at least  _ occasionally. _ ” ****  
** **

“You  _ what? _ ” **  
**

“Oh, didn’t you hear? I’m engaged. The details were finalized while the illustrious Night Lord was… indisposed and in servitude, so his then-Steward stepped in to cement the agreement.” Eris smirked. “As far as your question, I did  _ not _ intend to visit you in Tamlin’s court. As far as I was concerned, the last time with Tamlin was  _ genuinely  _ the last time.” His voice was serious and thoughtful. “I will admit that I was surprised when he stopped making the required court visits himself and started sending  _ you _ .”

"He told me he didn’t want to see you,” Lucien said, thoughtfully. “Why is that?”

“Our final conversation at the time was unpleasant. Unimportant.”

“I doubt that.”

“Unimportant to  _ me,  _ in any case.”

“‘Ris, you can’t lie to me-”

“I’ve done it all your life.”

“Not about this. Whoever you marry, promise me you’ll tell her first.”

“Tell her what?”

“You  _ know _ what.”

Eris smiled, a little ruefully, into his drink. “I will. I intend to. She’ll figure it out soon enough, anyway, it’s not like it’s much of a secret since Father died and I no longer had to keep it one.”

"I knew back then, too," Lucien said, softly. "I saw you sneaking them into your room once or twice."

"Ha." Eris smiled at him, the first warm and open smile Lucien had seen from him in… years, if not decades. "My fault for teaching you all the good hiding spots. Did you ever tell anyone?"

"No one. Not even Tamlin."

Eris raised an eyebrow, with the perfect timing that made the most of his slightly sarcastic expression. "Lucien.  _ Please _ believe me when I tell you that Tamlin, of all the fae, is perhaps the  _ most  _ aware of that particular secret." He leaned over again, dropping his voice into a seductive whisper. “Same way that I have seen  _ all  _ of his.”

“Right, because you two used to regularly get so drunk you couldn’t see straight.”

“Yes,” Eris said, a smile on his face that was strangely… nostalgic. “That is  _ exactly _ how drunk we would get.”

“I know that. I know you. Is the Night Court female fair-haired, too? Does she have green eyes?”

“No,” Eris replied, tightly. “She does not. She has black hair and blue eyes, for your information, not that I owe you any. She is a member of a family that has great influence and power in… near the Night Court. Not _ in _ it, granted, but-”

“Rhysand would never let anyone attached to you have influence in  _ his court. _ ”

“No. He won’t. And she's minor nobility, he never needed to know in the first place before the deal was done. But I don’t need that influence up  _ there _ , I need it  _ here _ . Besides which, the marriage wasn’t… entirely my idea.”

“What?”

“I won’t trouble you with it. Cementing my hold on an unstable court that has recently lost, oh, basically all of its leadership but me, that sort of thing. I will not need to change much about my life to simply move her into it. She is not exactly unhappy at the idea of coming somewhere… warmer than the Night Court, to a place where she can be a Lady without worrying too much about her  _ obligations  _ to me. And... “ Eris let out a slightly dreamy sigh. “Neither is her  _ personal guard _ ."

"Eris, seriously?"

 "Seriously." He looked Lucien over, with that strange piercing gaze, deceptively relaxed even though Lucien could feel the tension in the air. “Like old times, hm, Luce? Last time we sat like this you were about to punch me in the face and run out the window.”

“In my defense, you  _ told _ me to do that. And then made fun of me for not punching you right. Besides, the night is young; I may punch you again.”

“You nearly broke your hand,” Eris said, laughing a little more easily this time. “Of  _ course _ I made fun of you. You knew better.”

“I was a little preoccupied, considering my intended fiance had only _ just died _ , Eris.”

“No matter what may happen to you,” Eris replied seriously, “You should never be too  _ distracted  _ to throw a good punch. You never know when you’ll need to.”

“That’s a fair point. I’ll grant you that.” Lucien smiled, relaxing into the heat of the brandy in his shoulders and a conversation with Eris that had yet to end with a blade at either's neck. This was perhaps the longest civil conversation he’d had since he’d been granted leave to visit the Court in the wake of his father’s death, when Amarantha still ruled. Then, Eris had been far more insulting than this, far crueler. 

Tonight, it seemed his older brother was simply too tired to rise to the occasion. 

“Why are you here, Lucien?” Eris even sounded weary. “Don’t you have a madman to look after back home?”

“He’s not mad,” Lucien said, refusing to take the bait and get angry. “You and I both know no one walks away from that sort of ill-treatment without damage. He is better, day by day, but even ‘better’ doesn’t mean ‘fine’. And… actually I wanted to ask you about what happened today. Before Rhysand shows up here to slit your throat.”

_ Place your words more carefully, my love.  _

“I’d love to see him try, but he’s too smart to violate the laws of domain. If he stepped one foot into Autumn lands without permission, he'd forfeit his rights as High Lord and be at my mercy. He won’t come here. What about it?” Eris’s gaze went a little cloudy, and he looked over to his open window, staring out at the colorful sunset. He’d wanted this space at the end of the hall not because the room was larger, but because it faced west. Eris had always loved the vibrant, brilliant autumn sunsets here. Lucien had sneaked in here, when he was very small, to watch and try to name all the colors, to Eris’s indulgent delight.

“Why did you do that to him? Even your cruelty usually has its limits, and you went far past them today.” He kept the rage he felt out of his voice, carefully controlled it. But still, when he thought of Tamlin’s fear, his  _ terror  _ as Eris had wrapped him up in leading questions and memories he could not stand to revisit, he felt the fury trying to rise up. His fingers tightened around the hilt of the sword.

Lucien was a good person, or he tried to be. That did not make him a nice one.

Eris’s eyes went down to Lucien’s sword, and then back up to his face. “If you intend to attack me for disrespecting your traumatized lord and making him look like a fool in front of the rest of us, you might as well get it over with. I’m not in the mood for a swordfight.”

“I don’t intend to do any such thing. Look, Rhys might enjoy getting angry-”

“Oh, is he  _ Rhys  _ now? Are you so close?”

“... But I know better than to blow up at you. It never works and it never has. The moment you get someone angry at you, you’ve already won. So instead I want to understand what happened today by understanding  _ why _ you did it.”

Eris frowned, looking at Lucien with a new expression, one that was startlingly honest. On Eris’s face, Lucien saw a cautious, guarded hope. “You know me better than I thought you did. You didn’t come here to rage at me for hurting him? You came here to ask me _ why?” _

“Eris, you are a gods-awful bastard and have always been. You’ve always hurt Tamlin, and we both know it wasn’t always something he minded. But for all your coldness, for all that Beron beat the heart out of you, you have never,  _ ever _ treated him like that before.” Lucien knocked back what was left of his second drink and leaned forward, focusing good eye and metal right on Eris’s face. “The two of you have as much of a fucked-up history as any of the rest of us, we’re too long-lived to have any other kind. But you’ve never tried to _ tear him up  _ him like that before.”

There was a shimmer around his older brother, that Lucien could only see with his metal eye. The spell from earlier, hanging around, fainter than it had been but still present. He’d seen it back in Tarquin’s war room, too. He couldn’t break it, but he could  _ see  _ it. 

“Tamlin might disagree.” Eris looked away, and that told Lucien what he wanted to know. Or at least part of it.

“No. Eris, you’ve been calculated, and manipulative, and a bit crass. You think you’re playing chess and we’re all just pawns.”

“Oh, Luce - don’t sell yourself short. You’re definitely more like a knight.”

"Thank you for the compliment.”

“I suppose that makes Tamlin the queen,” Eris said with grave thoughtfulness. “Or do you think Rhysand is the queen?”

“... and the moment is ruined. You used him for your own ends and bring home fae that look like him-”

“I’ve done no such _ thing _ ,” Eris said, defensively. “You cannot prove that. I don’t know why you’re bringing any of this up.”

“Because I want to know why you would treat him that way.”

Eris looked back at him. The shimmer around his head seemed stronger, and his older brother opened his mouth and then closed it again, a fish trying to breathe the air. He refilled his own cup, and then poured more brandy into Lucien’s. “I’m not a good person, Lucien.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Isn’t it?” Eris smiled, faintly. “What went on today was merely… carrying out a responsibility. I have been building on that responsibility for a very long time.”

“To drive Tamlin to madness in front of everyone he was trying to impress? To make him look weaker when he most needed to seem strong?” Eris swallowed, hard, and Lucien saw  _ guilt  _ on Eris’s face. “Eris, what’s… what’s going on?”

“It didn’t matter that the other High Lords were there,” Eris said softly. “In fact, ideally they would not have been there, we would have been alone. But… Tamlin would not see me privately. I’ve tried to get an audience with him since the Mad Queen died. He has denied every request. I had to wait until he and I were in the same room. This was the first chance, and it was… expected that I would utilize it.”

“What does that mean, Eris? Expected by who?”

Eris did not look at him. “If I could have done that privately, I would have. I would not have had to push him so hard." He quirked the slightest one-sided smile. "He was always… responsive."

“If it had been in private, no one would have been there to stop you.”

“Yes.” Eris’s voice was quiet, and Lucien thought he could see an echo of fear around his face. Fear married to fascination, to curiosity, and to something worse. “That was meant to be the idea.”

“If you were alone, he would have-”

“He’d have done  _ whatever I ordered him to _ , wouldn’t he? Without  _ Rhysand -  _ and you, of course, - standing in my way.” Eris looked back over at Lucien, shrugging casually, but his eyes were too bright with something like lust, but darker and more violent. Lucien recoiled visibly from the expression. “Don’t worry, though. I’m a patient male, and the goals of my… benefactor… align with an interest I have in just how much Tamlin's tastes have changed. I can wait a long time for another chance.”

_ We should cut him or leave,  _ the sword whispered into his mind.  _ He is not entirely his own. _

“What does that mean?” Lucien asked, and Eris misunderstood and thought he was asking  _ him. _

“Nothing yet. But mark me on this, little brother. I  _ will  _ get him alone, and you had best hope he is stronger by then than he was today. The next time I speak to Tamlin, it’s going to be with no witnesses, and I will have him on his knees before you can find us to stop it. I will bring the sun down on your lord.”

“You can try, but I think you’ll find Rhysand standing in your way,” Lucien said, but his voice was faint, mind racing to try and put together Eris’s strange, enigmatic statements. “Of course, Rhysand being in the way is part of the problem isn’t it? A stronger High Lord with a kinder disposition and charm to spare? Full of  _ mystery _ , with a shared past with Tamlin, who would literally sell himself into slavery to save his own people?"

Eris snorted. "He's a right bastard and nothing more."

"No, 'Ris. He's a fucking  _ hero  _ to Tamlin. He's been Tamlin's north star for longer than I've known him, and y ou would never have stood a chance. If Rhysand had shown up at the  _ height  _ of Tamlin’s love for Feyre and given him an ultimatum, I wouldn’t have liked Feyre’s odds - his hate was always just a coin-flip from what they are now. When Tamlin was coming here all the time, after his family died, if Rhysand had told him all was forgiven back then, you wouldn’t have mattered to him at all.” It had been a guess - Lucien didn’t even know if the words were true - but Lucien watched Eris look away and a flash of something like hurt come across his face. 

_ I was right.  _ Knowledge was power, in the Autumn Court, and Lucien had a bit of information he hadn’t ever had confirmed before. “Ah, look at that. What a sad face, High Lord of Autumn. Don’t like hearing that you don’t compare favorably to him, do you? Tell me, Eris. What’s it like to  _ want _ someone else’s mate like that?”

"Go to hell, you slimy little shit." Eris didn’t look back. “You’d know. You were all a-flutter for Tamlin’s mortal girl before her  _ untimely demise, _ weren’t you?”

“That’s different. She was never meant to be Tamlin's mate. There is no timeline where she ends up with Tamlin, trust me. I saw them  _ all _ . You’re changing the subject because my aim has struck true, I can tell. He’s someone you don’t get to hurt any longer. He used to want someone to hurt him, and you were right there with your hand out, but… you can’t get him to want you to hurt him any longer and it  _ kills you,  _ doesn’t it? Were you jealous of Amarantha, too?”

Eris’s eyes flashed back to his, narrowed with anger. “You go too far. I may have enjoyed my time with your lord, but I would never have held him by fear and poison. When I held him, it was because there was something in my disposition he needed. You need to leave, Lucien,” Eris said softly, pushing himself standing. “Before I make you regret stupid questions. You weren’t seen, were you?”

“Just by Trells and Bogden.”

“Good. They’re still loyal. Get out of here, Luce, and go  _ now.  _ Give your lord - and Rhysand, for what it’s worth - my apologies. And tell them to make sure Tamlin is never,  _ ever _ alone with me.” 

“Are you saying the other guards aren’t loyal? Eris… what  _ are  _ you saying? Who are the others loyal to?”

“No one is loyal if the price is high enough,” Eris said softly. “Not even to his own children.”

Lucien took a deep breath. “What did he do, ‘Ris?”

“What?” Eris blinked, those gold eyes cloudy and unfocused. 

“Beron.”

“Hmph. Beat the shit out of us, you know that.”

“No, you keep saying-”

“Mind your own damned business, Lucien. You belong to the Spring Court now. Don’t you have a High Lord to coddle?” All the vulnerability, all those glimpses of worry and fear, were gone. Eris was a mask, and his voice dripped superiority and disgust. 

“I want to make a bargain.”

“Cauldron, fae and our damned  _ bargains- _ ”

“One for one,” Lucien said firmly, drank the rest of his brandy, slammed down the glass, and held out his hand. “I’ll go after, and I promise no one will see a thing. I’ll answer one question honestly, you answer one question honestly. No single-word answers, no dancing around. Answering honestly.”

“One for one,” Eris echoed. “You can’t ask directly about what I did to Tamlin today.”

“You can’t ask about my sword.”

Eris’s eyes flicked down and then back up again “That is now literally the  _ only  _ thing I want to ask about, little brother. I’ve heard rumors. Is it true that you go to bed with it?”

“Too bad. One for one. We have a deal? If you say no, I’m not going to leave. I’ll sit right here and wait to be discovered. Whatever you’re scared of is  _ your problem,  _ not mine. I can handle it.”

_ I think you mean _ we  _ can handle it.  _

“Fine, yes, ‘we’,” Lucien muttered, ignoring the puzzled look his brother gave him.  

“You might have made quite the fox after all, little brother.” After a pause, Eris reached out and shook Lucien’s hand. “One for one. Honest answers. I’ll go first. When did you figure out about your lord and I? About… me?”

Lucien sat back, staring at him, and then laughed. “You’re asking about  _ that? _ Of all the things happening right now, you want to ask me about  _ that? _ ”

“I know everything I want to know about your life right now,” Eris replied smoothly, eyebrow raised. “I know  _ significantly _ more than you think I do. And this is something I’ve always been curious about. Why not? If I decide I have a different question to ask, you’ll make another bargain with me. We both know you will.” 

“Ugh. Fine. I didn’t know about it when it actually  _ happened. _ ”

“You wouldn’t,” Eris said flatly. “Most of that was before you were born.”

“When I was a child, I saw you and Tamlin fight at a party. He was High Lord by then, but… he was still a mess.” Lucien swirled what was left of his own drink around in his glass, looking down at it. “Rhysand said something insulting to Tam, like he always does… well, did, I guess. They argued so loudly that one of the Illyrians had to get between them before they both got thrown out.”

“The shadowy one?”

“No, the other one. Cassian. Funny how Rhys had so much power he could make  _ all of us  _ forget they existed for so long, huh? Now that it’s all over with, I remember seeing them at every court function since he became High Lord, skulking around being intimidating, but when he was Under the Mountain... I could have bumped into them both in the street and it would be like I’d never seen them before.”

“Rhysand has too much power,” Eris said quietly. “He always has and every High Lord knows it. What you saw today proves it - that was  _ his  _ power Tamlin used to take all of ours. Rhysand is a monster pretending to be a fae.”

“Then you should be glad he apparently intends to use that power keeping his own lands in order rather than taking yours. Anyway, Rhysand spent the rest of the night relentlessly stealing away every woman Tamlin spoke to, because he thought it was funny that he could. Tamlin eventually lost his temper about it. In any case, he said something  _ very rude  _ to Rhysand and nearly challenged him to a duel _ ,  _ and you pulled him into a room down the hall to talk about it. Or so you could yell at him about it in any case.”

“It should tell you something about Tamlin - and about  _ Rhysand _ \- that I can think of at least ten separate incidents like that and have  _ no idea  _ which one you could be referring to.”

“When you were arguing, you tried to make him a drink to calm him down and Tamlin said,  _ Is this just about getting me drunk again? You just can’t live without me now, is that it? Now that I’m courting women?  _ and… you fought in whispers for a while, I couldn’t hear those.” Lucien swallowed, thinking of the memory, Tamlin’s hair a yellow-gold curtain around him as Eris grabbed him by the wrist and he spun around to glare. Eris’s had been longer then, too, to his shoulders.  

“And?” Eris said, his tone off-hand and casual, but Lucien had seen him fold one hand atop the other and begin to tighten his grip on his own fingers. “What then?”

_ Eris had laughed at Tamlin’s rage, a strangely soft, low laughter. He’d pulled himself closer by the hand he still had wrapped around Tamlin’s wrist, until their bodies were pressed together, had slid one arm up around his neck to hold him, murmured something Lucien hadn’t quite been able to hear. Tamlin had bared his teeth in a snarl. Then Eris said, with that same sardonic smile- _

Lucien sighed, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. “You said  _ who else would ever be kind to you?” _

“That sounds like something I would say.” 

“Tamlin looked like he’d been punched and said you were right.”

“Well, I  _ was _ right… at the time.”

“You said,  _ I’ve always been _ so _ good to you.  _ Then you leaned up to him and…” Lucien frowned, glad his skin, darker than all his siblings, made it a little harder to tell when he was blushing. “I stopped eavesdropping and left as fast as I could.”

“Why did you stop eavesdropping, Luce?” Eris had a slightly dreamy smile on his face. “Remember, you promised to answer honestly.”

“Because…” Lucien’s face burned red. “Because after that, he-”

_ Tamlin had grabbed Eris by the arms and shoved his back against a wall, hard enough to rattle a dresser with a small jewelry-tree laden down with necklaces nearby. He’d been growling, low in the back of his throat, in the beast’s voice, the look in his eyes intense and focused. “I’m done with your ‘kindness’, Eris. I’m leaving.” He’d turned to go, and Lucien had begun backing up, hoping not to be seen. _

_ Eris had grabbed him by the arm again with a slight smile on his face, his gold eyes bright like a fox on the hunt. Tamlin had turned slowly back to face him. “Oh, Tamlin… has _ anyone  _ ever been good to you without ulterior motives? Other than your dear mother, I mean.”  _

_ “Only once.” _

_ “And you see how  _ that  _ turned out. Come on, darling, just take what you’re given. You know I’m always here for you to tear apart when you’re angry at him.” He’d drawn a finger slowly down the center of Tamlin’s chest. “You can pretend I’m him, if you want to.” _

_ “Shut. Up.” Tamlin’s snarl deepened. _

_ “Ssssshhhh,” Eris murmured in mock-soothing tones, slowly unbuckling Tamlin’s belt. “Just do what I want this one more time, hm?” _

_ “How about _ you  _ do what  _ I _ want, for once?” _

_ “Will it be something I like?” _

“He what?” Eris put a mock-innocent look on his face, eyebrows raised.

“... you know what. I left.”

_ Lucien had backed away and couldn’t see them any longer. There was a silence, for a while, and then Eris had said, in a sweeter voice, "Cauldron, you're feeling dark tonight. You taste like half a bottle of whiskey and about a gallon of self-destruction." _

_ “You always liked that taste before." _

_ “Don’t pull away, Tam. I like it now, too. Do what I say for a while, hm?” _

_ Another pause, and then Tamlin’s voice, soft and a little thick with lust, said, “What’s your command?” _

_ "Get down on your knees and apologize for touching me without permission. That seems like a good place to start." _

_ Lucien had made it mercifully out of earshot after that and gone back into the main room, face red. Rhysand’s Illyrian Shadowsinger had looked at the adolescent youngest son of the Autumn Court lord with a sharp, thoughtful expression that Lucien had returned with a bald-faced, hateful glare. He’d always hated Azriel the most, because he seemed to see everything but never said a word to anyone but Rhysand or the other Illyrian who never seemed to be further than five feet away. _

_ After a second, Azriel had looked away, leaning over to say something to Cassian. Cassian had rolled his eyes and looked over at where Rhysand stood holding a drink, flirting openly with a woman that Tamlin had been speaking to earlier in the evening. The two Illyrians muttered to each other.  _

_ Lucien had always wondered what they said.  _

Eris sat back, thinking, his eyes drifting back to that open window. “Honestly, Luce, I’m impressed you could get the words out at all. I still don’t know which party that was. He and I used to argue like that all the time, before we stopped talking entirely.”

“That’s when I figured it out. I asked a few of the guards at home, who said he used to come around all the time before he met Rhysand - before I was born - and then started up again after his family died. That he came around even though you weren’t friends and he almost never stayed more than overnight. So I… put two and two together, and turns out I came up with four. And once I had the answer to that, I had the answer to… some other things I had noticed, too. That’s how I figured it out… about you. After that, I paid attention, and saw you sneaking them in.”

“Take my advice, Lucien - don’t take an angry lover to bed.” Eris ran a finger around the rim of his glass, smiling. “You’ll never want any other kind after that. You think it’s the hair and eyes I’m looking for? Maybe superficially. Really, though, it’s the  _ anger.  _ And Cauldron, what he used to  _ do  _ with it.”

“I can’t tell you how much I regret asking about Galendyl now.”

“You know, pissing Tamlin off as a form of foreplay  _ was  _ an interest the Mad Queen and I had in common.” He paused. “Do you think Rhysand has figured out to make him angry first yet? Do you think there are marks the next day like there were with me? I never let him heal his. You should hear some of the  _ stories  _ he had to make up to explain them. I’m surprised his brothers didn’t find out and burn him at the stake, Tam’s always been a bad liar.”

Lucien slumped. “You realize I have to go back to the Spring Court and make eye contact with him after this, right?”

“Too bad. You made the bargain, you should have been more careful about what I was allowed to ask.”

“My turn, then. I know you said I can’t ask about what you did to him today. I have the feeling what you can say is… hemmed in. Like when Tamlin and I were cursed, and we couldn’t tell the mortal girls what was happening to us, not directly.”

Eris said nothing this time, but tapped one finger on the table.

“I know you are working for someone, or someones, and that you are frightened of them. I saw the fear on your face today. I can see that you did not  _ want  _ to hurt Tamlin, which is… strange, since my entire life has been spent watching you do just that.”

“Different kind of hurt,” Eris murmured. “The other kind was more fun.”

“My question is… who  _ exactly  _ are you working for?”

Eris kept his eyes on the window, focused on the fading sunset and the appearance of the evening star. He smiled, bitterly. “I have been forbidden to speak the name.” He stood, walking away from Lucien, going over to a desk in the corner and pulling out a piece of paper. He dipped a pen in some ink and wrote something, scratching it out in a quick flourish. “I absolutely cannot tell you that. I am physically incapable of speaking the words.” 

He walked back over, his heels clicking on the floor with the metal embedded in the soles of his boots. 

“There is nothing on this earth or in Prythian itself that could induce me to tell you.”

He laid the paper out in front of Lucien.

“So stop asking.”

Lucien stared down at the words written on that piece of paper and looked back up, baffled. “‘Ris, what is this?”

“The only answer to your question you will receive. Now get out of here before you are seen.” 

“I understand,” Lucien said thickly, although he did not, not at all. “It was my fault for asking. I’m sorry to have wasted my one question that way.” He picked up the paper, blew on the ink a little to try and help it dry, folded it carefully, and slid it into a pocket. 

He stood, then froze, awkwardly, looking at Eris’s face, calm and implacable, looking right back at him. His older brother - his  _ only brother,  _ when would he remember that? - held up one finger and got another sheet of paper, writing on this one, too. He handed it over and gave a faint, sincere smile.

_ Never doubt I loved you. I will do what I can to keep you safe. _

Lucien looked up. “Do you?”

“I am a monster, Lucien, and I won’t deny it… hell, I quite  _ enjoy _ it… but that’s never applied to you.”

Lucien let the seconds tick by while he read the words over and over again, a feeling at once cold and hot gripping his heart. Then, he carefully folded up that one too, ignoring the look of faint surprise on Eris’s face when he put it into his pocket to keep. “You, too,” Lucien said, and his voice was slightly strained. “‘You know I… me, too.”

Eris leaned over and kissed his forehead, the way he’d done when Lucien was very small and frightened of the thunderstorms that raged outside nearly every afternoon during what passed for Autumn’s summer.

“You may go,” Eris said softly. “I think I’ll be sending for Galendyl, after all.” He quirked the slightest little smile. “Galendyl  _ is,  _ for the record, a fair-haired male, although his eyes are blue, and his temper is… exciting. As is what happens to it when I don’t let him have his way until he asks  _ very, very nicely.  _ You weren’t wrong about me.”

“When it comes to you, ‘Ris, I rarely am. And please never ever  _ ever  _ talk to me about what you do with your lovers  _ ever again _ .” 

“But you make such nice  _ faces _ when I do. I’ll be hosting a courtwide gathering to announce my engagement to the Night Court female in a few months.  _ Everyone will be invited, Lucien.  _ And court manners dictate  _ everyone _ attends, even High Lords who don’t want to be there.”

“Like Tamlin’s ever given a damn about court manners,” Lucien spat. 

“Oh, he’ll come. Because Rhysand will force him to.”

“Rhysand doesn’t make Tamlin do anything he doesn’t want-”

“He will when he sees what’s written on the invitation.”

“Eris, what are you planning?” Lucien frowned, thinking of the folded-up paper in his pocket.  _ What are the people who control you planning? _

“Sorry, Luce, I can’t share that. I’m going to send Rhysand a personal apology beforehand, and Tamlin as well. Everything will be calm, and quiet as can be. Court obligations and the reality of my apology - the information that will be included in that invitation he receives - will mean Rhysand  _ must  _ attend, and trust me… he’ll bring Tamlin with him for this. And if they want it all to look normal, they’ll have to speak to me. Do you get my meaning?”

_ Don’t let me get Tamlin alone. _

“I do,” Lucien said softly. “I understand your meaning. We’re all we have left, aren’t we? Eris… you’re an absolute arse, but I can’t wait to meet her.” 

“I can't wait to meet her  _ guard. _ I understand he’s Illyrian, bastard-born. He’s been in some, let’s call it social trouble, back home, and was somewhat aggressively invited to get the fuck out of the Illyrian camps and never show his face again. He’ll be joining my court permanently and by all accounts he is  _ furious  _ about it. You know how much I crave diversion. He promises to be something… entirely new. Luce,” Eris said softly, and held out his hand.

Lucien shook it. “‘Ris. Please,  _ promise _ me-”

“I promise I’ll tell her. I think she already suspects, and I imagine that’s why she agreed to the proposal in the first place. To be honest, I have similar suspicions about her. The Night and Autumn Courts don’t leave much room for standing outside a narrow plan, do they? She and I can both live our lives as we please, together.”

“Eris-”

“ _ Go,  _ Luce. It’s too hard to see you up close these days. Tell your lord…” Eris trailed off, thinking, and a small smile crossed his face. “Tell him that I look forward to hearing all about what Rhys talks him into when he’s drinking.”

“I am absolutely not going to tell him that.”

“Then just tell him that it doesn’t matter what he wears… I know where _ all _ his scars are.”

Lucien left without looking back, sneaking out the same way he’d come in. Trells and Bogden were waiting for him at the servants’ staircase and he felt a spike of painfully acute gratitude for those who had seen what Beron was and done their best to help his youngest son survive it, who were still loyal to him even now. Trells and Bogden had been the same guards on duty the night he’d first escaped, the ones who had created a diversion on Eris’s orders to give him time to steal a horse and run. They’d been flogged for it and sent packing back to their home villages in the hills afterward; the first thing Eris had done upon taking the throne as High Lord was give them back their jobs, with even higher pay.

_ I should have known he still loves me, that I am still his brother, just from that. _

It was only when he had winnowed himself back to Rosehall and the Spring Court that he took in a deep breath, falling back slightly against a wall, staring wide-eyed into space.

_ What did the note say?  _ His sword asked.

“I need to talk to Rhysand and Mor… and Amren.” Lucien went outside and started stalking towards the darkly shadowed forest, eyes narrowed with determination. “But… we’ll go back to Velaris in a little while. Rhysand can take better care of Tamlin than I can right now, anyway.”

We  _ saved your Tamlin, Lucien, you and I. If it had only been the Night Lord, they would still be in that madwoman’s bed.  _ We  _ did that. _

“I did most of the work, all you did was drink my blood and introduce me to your mother.”

_ Technically I drank everyone’s blood. Speaking of… _

“You’ll have to wait on the blood. I may have saved Tamlin, but I can’t be _in it_ with him. Rhysand can. What _I_ can do is figure out why wrote me that note, and stop him from doing… whatever that was… again. First… let’s go find a Suriel and see what they have to say.”

The wind whispered through the trees around them, and the lovely twilight that hung around Rosehall in the evenings slowly gave way to the weighty darkness of the wood itself. With Amarantha gone, it was marginally safer to walk the woods like this, but just because the Attor and its like had gone… that didn’t mean what Lucien intended to do was  _ wise. _

_ Why would they know any more than you do? _

“They helped us before.” He moved through the forest with no particular destination in mind

_ Before, all of Prythian was in her grasp. That is no longer true. There is no threat to them now. You haven’t had to ask them anything since Tamlin went back to Rhysand. _

“If what that note said is real, then it’s entirely possible that Prythian is still in danger. Besides, they  _ always  _ show up when I  _ need _ them. It’s like they can… tell. I guess it makes sense, I’m their fucking king now, right?”

_ I don’t think that’s how it works. _

Lucien laughed, a little darkly. “So little faith in the loyalty of monsters? They’ve always come through for us before.”

He put one hand in his pocket, crinkling the folded-up piece of paper that Eris had given him.

Written on it in Eris’s careful, neat handwriting, were the words:

_ The Court of Dusk returns. _


	17. Let It Happen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first part of this chapter is probably NSFW/any place people might read over your shoulder. Nothing super explicit, just, you know... two Illyrians who love each other VERY much.

The thing about Cassian, Azriel thought, was that his every emotion was written across his face as soon as he felt it. You could read him like a book, and he didn’t care - Cas wasn’t afraid of having feelings, or getting carried away with emotions. He never stopped to analyze them or try to rob them of their power like Az did.

Instead, he did something else entirely - he spoke his mind right away, let the emotions in, and moved with them wherever they wanted him to go.

Az had always admired that about him, when he wasn’t busy trying to save him from the consequences of it. He’d decided to try a little of that for himself, here in Lawless. They had been here, in this inn, just over a week, and Az had been practicing smiling in ways that didn’t unsettle people, or just telling Cas what he was thinking or feeling. 

Right now, watching Cas dry himself off after returning from the bathing room, he was having a very specific emotion that wanted to move him in a very specific direction.

Here, no one cared about his feelings or his expressions. They did not have to hide themselves in public, and no one cared what they were to each other or what they did. Az felt safer in Insurgent than he’d felt those last three weeks in the Night Court, for sure - and he knew Cas felt more secure than he had probably most of his life, since here he didn’t have to hide anything.

A bit of water dripped from Cas’s wet hair and ran over his collarbone. Az watched the drop make its slow way over his chest and the muscles of his stomach. His mouth went suddenly very dry.

“Shit,” he said softly.

Cas, drying his hair with a towel, crooked an eyebrow. “Az? You look weird-”

Az moved, shoving him backwards onto the bed, not even trying to be delicate about it, climbing up on top of him, leaning over to stare down at Cassian’s answering wicked smile as he ripped the towel away from his hips as well. 

“You’re gonna wear me out, at this rate,” Cas said softly, but he laughed and pulled Azriel down for a kiss.

“I already did that when we first got here,” Azriel murmured, splaying his fingers out along the sensitive skin of Cassian’s wings, closing his eyes as Cas’s hips moved unconsciously to meet his. “Remember? I had to bring your food up to you the next day. You  _ limped. _ The past week has been… perfect.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve been at me every night. We need to talk about that,” Cas breathed. “You know, most people would assume that _I_ would be the one wearing _you_ out.”

“Most people would be wrong. I like it better when it’s me. Get up on your knees, Cas.”

“I think I like it better when it’s you, too, but next time maybe we can switch things up and give me a gods-damned  _ rest _ .”

“Mmmmn. Maybe. Only if you’re good.”

“You sure love giving orders,” Cas said in a whisper, but his smile didn’t so much as waver. If anything, it grew wider, and Azriel could feel him hardening where their hips met. “Were you like this with the females?”

“Yes. But they never liked it as much as you do.” He paused. “Well, a couple of them did, I guess.”

“You  _ guess? _ ”

“Ha. Yes. I could tell they did. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that  _ you  _ do. Were  _ you  _ like this with the females?”

“Sometimes. When you’re in command all day sometimes it’s nice to not be in charge for a while. It’s not the same with females-”

“You...  _ do _ like both, though?”

“I like both,” Cas said firmly. “Like the High Fae mostly do. I meant that it’s not the same as it is with  _ you.  _ But… sometimes they liked ordering me around. Sometimes I could tell they wouldn’t and I never even asked. But  _ you _ never waited for me to ask.”

“Cas, I  _ know  _ you. Now get up on your knees, I said.” Azriel moved off of him, grabbing a bottle of oil off the side table next to the bed. Cassian grinned, watching him put some onto his own hands. 

“You’re going to make me need to bathe again. The others here are going to get suspicious.”

“Cas, they know  _ exactly  _ what we’re doing in here. You’re not what I would call… subtle. And neither are the two three doors down from us.” Azriel hesitated, looking at the slick shine on his hands, then back up at Cas. “Do you mind that they know?”

“Not here, I don’t. And I want to learn not to mind when we go back home,” Cas said, his eyes on Azriel’s hands as well. Azriel watched the expressions, as open and honest as could be, wandering across his face; the thrill and a bit of nervousness and below it all, the constant drumbeat of desire. Even if it hadn’t been on his face, his body gave him away.

Az’s body wasn’t hiding, either, even if he knew his own face was still largely blank. It didn’t matter; Cas had always been able to read him regardless.

“I’m on my knees,” Cas said, and his voice was hushed, anticipating. “What do you want me to do now?”

Az smiled, slowly. “I want you to not make a sound or even move. Every time you make a sound or try to touch me, I’m going to stop.”

“That’s not fair at all.” 

“No, it’s not. But you never mind when it’s not fair.”

It was Cas he took into his hand first, moving slowly, letting the oil coat completely the length of him even as he hardened under his touch. Cas’s hands went into fists at his sides, his eyes fluttering closed and then opening again, his jaw set tight to keep himself silent and still. 

“You’re fucking beautiful,” Azriel murmured, and Cas fought against and failed to stop a smile. “When I make you look like this. Did I ever tell you you’re beautiful?”

Cas didn’t fall for it - he stayed silent, even as his lips pressed together into a thin line. His eyes were half-lidded and fogged with lust as they met Azriel’s. His breathing had sped up and gone ragged, and Azriel listened to every minute change. The shadows twisted around them, wanting to be called to touch Cas as well, but he held off.

No, this time it would just be him.

He let his other hand slide slowly over Cas’s hips, trailing oil as it went, curving around behind. He wondered, idly, if the scars made his touch feel any differently to Cas than his other lovers had felt. “I used to watch you in the sparring ring,” Azriel whispered. “Just to see you get covered in sweat, so I could think about it being for a reason like this.”

Cas barely suppressed a whimper, as Azriel’s fingers found what they were looking for and pushed in. “Ssssshhhh,” He whispered. “Don’t give up  _ already _ , General. Aren’t you supposed to be able to withstand torture?”

Cas looked away from him, jaw tightening, grinding his teeth together with the effort it took not to make a sound. 

He began to move both his hands, trying to keep their rhythm matching, watching Cas struggle and just barely succeed at holding himself still. “You’re getting better at this,” He said softly.

It took Cassian longer than ever to lose the game this time, and Azriel could feel his own iron-willed control becoming ragged and thin. Cas was so  _ warm  _ to the touch, in a way Az himself had never been, lit with fire within where Az had always been colder. Cas had dreamed about him, he’d said before, had spent nights praying Az wouldn’t accidentally stumble across one of those dreams. Had hidden this part of himself so that the Illyrians would never find out.

But… here no one cared and there were no consequences for it, no reason to be afraid. 

Finally, Cas moaned and moved his hips back, begging hoarsely for Az to stop fucking with him and  _ do something already, _ and Az moved both his hands away, listening to Cas’s frustrated groan as he held himself still again.

Cauldron, what a sound. It was a wonder they’d left this room at all, in the past week they’d been staying here. 

_ We’ll leave tomorrow to head up into the hills. We’ll have to be more careful out there. At least today we can be like this one more time. _

“Good,” Azriel said finally. Cas, realizing the test was over, collapsed forward onto his hands, letting out a low moan of mixed-up pleasure and disappointment that Az’s touch was gone again. “You did so good, this time.”

“I want you so badly,” Cas growled, low in the back of his throat, black hair shining and wet where it hung over his half-lidded eyes.

_ I’d kill anyone for you, the whole world, anything you asked I would do for you. _

“Spread your wings out, I don’t want to crush them.” Az listened to his breathing, smiling as he moved behind him. “I think this is the happiest I’ve ever been, Cas.”

“Shit, we’re criminals, Az.” Cas groaned more than spoke the words, as Azriel moved around behind him. “In a place where everyone would hate us if they knew who we were and we nearly got killed getting here. Are… are you ready to-”

“Yes,” Az whispered. “Stay still for a second and relax. I’m happy because I get to be with you whenever I want. I don’t care where it is.”

Cas laughed, a shaky sound, as Azriel slid his hands back over his hips. “Not how I saw my life going when I was just part of the aerial legions,” He breathed, moaning low in the back of his throat as Azriel very slowly pushed himself in. “You d-don’t have to go so slow, it doesn’t h-hurt-”

“That’s not why I’m going slow,” Azriel murmured, hooking his  arms around Cas’s at the elbow and suddenly pulling him back. Cas cried out, in the best possible way, as it pushed Az the rest of the way in all at once. He could feel Cas’s whole body stiffen around him and, for the first time, Az made a low noise in the back of his throat as well. “Mmmn… that was why.”

_ Amarantha knew what she was doing. I would have taken a thousand lives to see you smile. I would have knelt in front of you in a room full of blood and bodies and never cared at all.   _

“What did you think your life would be, in the legions?” Azriel asked, leaning over Cas’s back to nip with sharp teeth at the back of Cas’s neck, burying his face in his hair, as the two began to move together. He didn’t let go of his arms, though, holding Cas tight against him, his back to Az’s chest, wings spread out. 

“L-lonely,” Cas ground out, moving his hips to push himself back all the way, then pulling himself forward just a little. “I was… was lonely.”

“Are you lonely now?” Azriel whispered, blowing on the part of Cas’s neck he’d just bitten, cold air against hot skin.

“Never.” Cas dropped his head lower, bending his back until his forehead rested on the blanket, laughing in something just louder than a whisper. “I’m with you, Az. I’ve never been lonely when you were with me.”

Azriel grinned, letting go of his arms finally to slide his hands back around over Cas’s hips. “Cas…”

“I’m with you,” Cas murmured. Azriel grabbed him by his arms again, pulling him back until the both of them were up on their knees. Cas’s hands slid up and around behind Azriel’s neck, holding onto him tightly, head falling back onto his shoulder. “I’m with you, I’m with you.”

“Always,” Azriel murmured into his ear, and bit down on the curved shell of his earlobe. The other Illyrian twisted against him, groaning so loudly it  _ had  _ to be audible in the hallway by this point, and neither of them gave a damn.

“Az, I love you so fucking much.” Cas’s voice was thin, a little hesitant, and Az froze for a moment, staring slightly wide-eyed at the wall. Cas hadn’t said it since Amarantha had been ripping out his wing, in those last moments when they’d thought they were both about to be dragged down into the darkness with her. Azriel had never actually said it at all.

“Was… th-that okay…?” Cas asked in a whisper, and Azriel realized he’d stopped moving and gone very still. “Was it okay to say…”

He hesitated, but they were here, and they were alive. They’d spent all their lives beating the odds stacked against them, and they were here. They’d survived childhoods as a bastard and a broken boy, survived Illyrian war training, made it through Rhys’s father separating them and survived fighting a war for mortals they had never even really known, lived through a mad queen trying to take them as pets, and finally survived a shipwreck specifically designed to drown them. They’d made it this far, together.

“I love you, too,” Azriel finally said out loud, and felt tears in his eyes even as they moved together, his hand on Cas to help him along, the heat of Cas burning him from the inside out in the best possible way. 

Azriel struggled with feelings. He had never trusted them, had seen the way others gave in to emotion and lost themselves. He’d given in to what he felt once and Amarantha had taken over his body and nearly had his mind, too. She’d seen in his head that he would not kill for her, even with her power infecting his mind… but that he would slaughter whole worlds for Cas.

He had never trusted emotions, or what he felt. There was too much danger in other people knowing how you felt about someone and being able to use it against you. But right now…

“I love you, too, Cas.”

“T-together, Az.”

“Always.”

* * *

If they hadn’t been so distracted, they might have noticed someone watching them through a hole in the wall where a strangely-shaped knot of wood had been a moment ago. 

The eyes watching them were a deep blue in the center and ringed around the outside with a lighter blue that was almost like slate. They were striking, and brought to mind staring directly into the bottom of a lake from a great height. The eyes narrowed, perhaps watching for a few moments more than was strictly necessary, and then the knot of wood was very slowly replaced. The fae on the other side of the wall stood up, put his hands in his pockets, and carefully went back down the stairs.

The fae stopped to look at Gyerin where he already stood behind the bar, writing some kind of letter. He caught the bartender’s eye, pointed up the stairs, and mouthed the word,  _ tonight.  _ Gyerin nodded, standing up straight and moving away from the letter he’d been writing, taking a particular brown bottle down from the shelves that were heavy with every kind of liquor you could possibly smuggle in to a criminals’ town. He marked it with a bit of white chalk.

The blue-eyed fae left without looking back, smiling to himself, hands back in his pockets. He walked past the guard who always stood watch just outside Gyerin’s bar and, without even pausing in his stride, slid five pure gold coins into the male’s hand. “Tonight,” He breathed out in a whisper. “You’ll get the rest tomorrow, if this works.” The guard slid the coins into his own pocket, nodded once, and leaned back against his post.

The fae bribed the next guard, and the next. Each took the coins and nodded, as he made his winding way slowly up the hill to the administration building at the very top. They’d been at this dance for a very long time, after all. 

There was law in Insurgent, but it was written by the lawmen, and they were… flexible.

He dropped his glamour, since there was no point to maintaining it, and moved inside the administration building without hesitating. He waved cheerfully to the hulking peg-legged Summer Court fae behind the absurdly tiny desk. “Afternoon, Ty.”

“Ah, it’s you,” Ty said, folding his hands in front of him, eyes narrowed. “I got your message. You know they’ll fight like banshees on witch-weed, don’t you? Have you ever  _ seen  _ Illyrians fight?”

“We’re counting on it,” The fae replied smoothly. “I’ve let every guard know it’s going to be tonight. They’re all going to be very, very busy and completely unable to help when our poor Illyrians discover their plight.”

“Hm. I’ll let tomorrow’s shift know as well, just in case, but you’ll need more money to bribe them if they’re needed. Are you  _ sure  _ it’s these two?”

“Certain. We appreciate your continued assistance.” The fae dumped his remaining fifty gold coins onto the desk in front of the head of security for Insurgent. 

“So long as you keep up your end of the bargain, I’ll keep mine,” Ty said quietly, gathering the coins to himself.

“Once everything is settled, you’ll be brought back home, Ty. I made you a promise and I won’t let you down.”

“I want to go home,” Ty said softly. “I don’t care if you’ve burned half of Adriata to the ground before I get there. Just do me a favor - make sure Cresseida has Tarquin locked up in his own Cauldron-damned prison to rot, then tell her to give me an hour alone with him.”

“Hm.” It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it wasn’t exactly  _ not _ a laugh, either. The fae inclined his head in a slight bow and then turned to go. At the door, he paused, looking back over his shoulder. “I’ll do what I can. I wouldn’t worry too much, Ty. It’s not  _ your home  _ we’ll burn down.”

“I know,” Ty said, stacking the gold coins in five neat little rows in front of him, looking at the way they glinted in the dim light. “You’ll be burning down the Dawn Court, right?”

The fae snorted. “I’ll use their feathers to stuff my pillows.” Then he left, carefully closing the door behind him. As he walked away, he began to whistle, heading back down into town. The rest of them would be holed up a few doors down. He himself would be at a brothel at the north end of town, waiting for word to be sent back that the mission had either succeeded or failed. Gyerin’s strange weakness for hookers had come in handy, after all. 

He would only be truly happy when he heard everything was a success, that the two Illyrians were rendered helpless and on their way back to the other side of the hills, where the Court prepared for its resurrection. And anything that made  _ him _ happy… made everyone else happy, too, didn’t it?

If it didn’t, he’d just go into their heads and make sure it did.

* * *

When the fae was gone, Ty sat back, looked slowly down at the place where his knee turned into a useless stump with wood crudely attached to it. 

“Tonight, then,” He said heavily. “They should have left town when I told them to right at the beginning. Dumbasses.” He turned, staring at a closed door to the closet where he would have kept cleaning supplies, if he had ever given a damn long enough to try and clean. “You can come out now.”

Kealah slid out of the closet in one smooth motion, looking the way the fae had gone. “I can’t believe it was  _ him _ ,” She said out loud, tapping her bottom lip with one fingernail, thoughtfully. “We were on a ship with him for nearly a  _ month. _ I thought it was the  _ Peregryn  _ I had to watch, but… it was  _ him.  _ He was down there  _ with  _ us, Ty.”

“You told me he was dead, Kealah.”

“Ah… technically, and you know how much I love admitting to my wrongdoings and being very sincerely sorry and so forth, I’m not the one who said that. General _ Cassian _ told you he was dead. I just… chose not to enlighten you, out of my sincere and utter gratitude to Cassian for blowing up the ship for me and making the whole thing so much easier.”

“We have to tell Lord Tarquin,” Ty said, folding his hands in front of him, looking at the loose pile of gold the High Fae had left on his desk. “We have to tell him that it wasn’t who we thought it was.”

“Think I can rescue them?” Kealah squinted in the gloomy room, sitting herself on the edge of Ty’s desk, flicking idly at a balled-up piece of paper until it went flying to the floor and rolled a few feet away. 

“Probably not. We’ve been letting them bribe us to abduct fighters for decades. They’re too big for you to take by yourself.”

“I hate that Cassian and Azriel have to get hurt.”

“Risk of the trade, Kealah. You should know better than to get attached, anyway.”

“I didn’t get  _ attached.  _ We knew it was going to be them, anyway. Can’t a girl feel regrets, now and then?”

“Girls can, but you’re six hundred years old and I genuinely do not care enough about it to listen to you. What are you going to do? Should I call off the bribe?”

“No.” Kealah swung one leg, idly, her bare foot moving through the humid, stifling air in this closed-off space. Finally, she stood back up and twisted her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck until it held in a low bun. “Let it happen.”

“Are you sure?”

“That’s what Tarq said to do. I’ve been ordered to let it all happen right up until we’re back in Prythian and he can give me support. Besides, maybe they’ll just fight them all off and I won’t have to do anything at all.”

“Oh, like you’ve ever followed orders in your whole damn life,” Ty snorted, but his eyes glimmered with good humor. 

“Well, first time for anything, I suppose.”

“Don’t you mean ‘everything’?”

“Do I?” Kealah winked at him. “Enjoy your night holed up in this little piece of hell, Ty.” Her smile faded slightly, and she looked out the small open window, down towards the ocean below them.    


"Are you going to watch?”

“Of course I am. No more, no less. Watching is what I do.” Kealah picked up her knife off the side table close to the door, eyed the edge of the blade thoughtfully, then slid it carefully into the sheath at her hip. “I won’t touch them until we know the plan. Just have to hope they’re not stupid enough to get themselves killed or worse.”

“They’re Night Court, Kealah,” Ty said with a grunt. “They’re only stupid enough to get  _ other people  _ killed. Night Court never risks their own safety for anyone else. They’re all shady as hell.”

Kealah paused, door cracked open, feeling the cooler air outside finding its way in. She looked over her shoulder at Ty, then just stepped out the door, padding silently down the streets, unnoticed in a strange town full of stranger fae. 

“I get the feeling,” She said to herself, sliding into the shadow of an alleyway, “that our understanding of the Night Court might not be as accurate as we think.”

* * *

Back in the bar, Gyerin squatted down on the floor, pulling up a bit of loose floorboard, picking up a small envelope from a pile of them stashed inside a box. He replaced the floorboard, tore the barest edge of the envelope, and poured the powder inside straight into the brown bottle he’d just taken down.

The powder slid out of the envelope like sand in an hourglass, marking the seconds until time was up. It was a strangely-colored powder, a mix of individual grains, glittering power and dark blue, pink and red, purple and a dark yellow. 

It was beautiful, and it looked like the sky at sundown.

Gyerin put the bottle into a special spot just under his bar and went back to writing his letter as though nothing had happened. Just in front of his knee, tucked away, the powder began to dissolve into the liquor inside the brown bottle, the colors fading as it mixed in. The reds and purples and blues became the same muddied brown.

Now, all Gyerin had to do was wait for the sun to set and the two Illyrians to come down for dinner.


	18. The Peregryn

Cas had the worst fucking headache he’d ever had, and his mouth felt like it’d been stuffed with cotton and dried to a foul-tasting desert.

What had happened? He had gotten drunk with Az… but… 

He couldn’t quite wake up. He tried, but sleep pulled him back down, her arms around him, dragging him back into the soft darkness. 

_ “I tried to tell you, beautiful bird.” Her hand was on his forehead, cool and comforting against the fevered heat. He was lying on the thin mat in his prison cell, and she was down there with him, kneeling on the mat with his head resting in her lap. He shivered at her touch, hearing the rattle of the chain attached to his neck. “But you never wanted to listen to me.” _

Cas groaned and rolled over. It felt as though his head had been wrapped in a heavy wool blanket while being bashed in with a hammer. The pain throbbed behind his eyes and stabbed deep into his brain, clamped down on his temples. His stomach roiled and the room spun around him when he shifted, and he leaned over, throwing up into the small chamberpot next to the bed. Finally he fell back, clenched his eyes shut tighter, and held himself very, very still until the spinning settled back down to a queasy, uneven rocking.

He hadn’t felt like this since he was still a kid back at the camps and had let his pride get him talked into a drinking contest with a full grown warrior. 

Maybe the food had just been bad. They hadn’t even had that much to drink last night. Granted, they had tried some new regional liquor the bartender had recommended, and he’d  _ said  _ it’d have a kick to it, but Illyrian livers held liquor well and he didn’t think he’d drunk  _ that  _ much…

_ “Ssssshhhh, there’s a good boy. Lie still. That's my pretty boy.” She stroked his hair back from his forehead gently, so gently. His head hurt so much, and her touch was soothing. “Don’t worry. It didn’t end here, although I wish it had. But you’ll need to wake up.” _

_ “Shut up,” Cas muttered.  _ He thought he heard a faint laughter, the sound of people talking, Azriel asking a question with a strange tremor in his voice...  _ but her hand was more real, the soft fabric of her dress where his head rested on her thighs. The prison cell felt closer than anything else. He could even feel the cold of the stone floor right through the thin mat and smell the metal bars, the vanilla scent that seemed to always be coming from her skin. That smell… it had always made it harder to fight her, to push back. It surrounded him, wrapped him up in her, and made it seem easier just to give up and let her do whatever she wanted. She’d do that, anyway, wouldn’t she? "I fucking hate you.” _

_ “I know,” She said soothingly. “I know you do. I only wanted to keep something so pretty for myself, was that so wrong? I wanted my Illyrian all to myself.” She drew her fingers down the side of his neck, trailing them along the line of his spine. He shifted slightly, trying to open his real eyes, failing. “My beautiful killer. I wish I had gotten to see you in action.” _

He could hear Azriel next to him in the bed, shifting around quickly, rolling over onto his stomach. He must be feeling sick, too. He felt the brush of a shadow over him - it didn’t feel like Azriel’s shadows - and as the bed shifted under someone’s moving weight, his stomach threatened to revolt again. Cas groaned and curled himself up, pressing his hands against his abdomen, willing his stomach to settle. 

_ “Not your killer. You’re dead.” Was she, though? Or had escape been the dream? He kept having thoughts like that these days, intruding on his time with Azriel here in Insurgent, just relaxing in a way they hadn’t since the end of the War. Not the enforced idleness of their time trapped in Velaris waiting for a Rhys that might never come home, no; the relaxation of time where they had no one to protect but each other. It had felt too good to be true. “Why do I feel like this? Why is my head so heavy?” _

_ “You’ll see. Oh, Cassian. I’m not here to help you.” _

_ “Why are you here, then?” Even as one of her hands flattened against the small of his back, the fingertips of the other pressed lightly on the furrow between his brows, smoothing them out. Azriel’s fingers were cold when he did this, he’d let the shadows wisp across too. He was so tired. He never had the energy to fight her, to fight back. She leaned down to kiss him, something she at least had never done in his time in the prisons, and he opened his mouth for her. Would she really have kissed this softly, or was that just his own invention? “You never came to the prisons, Amarantha. You made me go to you.”  _

_ “I told you this isn’t really happening. This is just your mind trying to revisit something that terrified you in order to make it less frightening through repetition. You would have been less scared if I had wanted you in bed. Did you enjoy prison, Cassian?” _

_ “They poured cold water over my head to wake me up, or threw things at me, or banged metal against the bars. They never let me just sleep. They kept me so tired." _

_ “Was my room the only place you ever slept comfortably?” _

_ “It was. It was better than anywhere else. They beat the shit out of me when I didn’t eat enough, or if I ate too much. If I talked back or if I didn’t. Or sometimes they just beat the shit out of me.” _

_ “You could only avoid being injured by coming to me, is that it?” _

_ “Every time you put me in your throne room they tried to touch my wings as soon as you walked away. They came down to the prisons where I was chained up and couldn’t get away from them. The fucking guards made me keep my nose or my back to the wall. Did you tell them to come down there?” _

_ “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you think that I did. You believe I wanted your time with me to be the only time you were safe. Did you tell Azriel about what happened when they came down to the prisons, the courtiers, to see you?” _

_ “No. Why didn’t I?” _

_ “Because you don’t want him to know, why else? But he might understand why you are so scared of the bars if you did.” _

_ “Why did you do all of that?” He looked at her, and her eyes were… strangely different. They were a deep, dark blue, a blue so fathomless he could hardly look right at it, ringed at the edges with a lighter, paler color. Like looking into water from a high distance above.  _

_ Her eyes had never been like that. _

_ “Why do you torture  _ your  _ prisoners, Cassian? We both know you’ve done it.” _

_ “Only the worst, only when we had to. To… to break them.” _

_ “And yet you didn’t break, did you, my little bird?” She smiled at him, and it was a smile he’d never seen in life. There was none of the pinprick pupils, the madness in her eyes. No malevolence in her face. She only smiled, and in that smile he could see who she might have been before she’d lost her mind. “Pain did nothing to you. You have been trained to withstand it. Indignity chipped away at you but progress was slow. I'd had the idea to make you realize you had to depend on me, but we didn’t have time for that, did we? Oh, Cassian, listen to yourself - you’re finally understanding everything I did, you’re working your way through my motivations… even if you have to figure it out in dreams long after I’m dead. I had to take your body by magic because you would not give in. But you also know I would have preferred to see you kneel of your own volition.”  _

_ She leaned over and whispered into his ear, the slightest warm breath he could feel. “When your actions did not belong to you, your mind was still not mine. Keep that mind, Cassian. I underestimated it.” _

_ “What do I do now, Amarantha?” _

_ “You wake up, Cassian. Azriel needs you.” She pressed her cool hand to his forehead one more time. “You’re going to need each other. Remember what I told you before, Cassian - there are worse things in the world than me, and they will want you for your power. Watch for my eyes in another’s face. Don’t worry, my love.” _

_ She kissed his forehead, and it felt so good. _

“Cassian,” He heard Azriel’s voice as if from far away, shaking slightly, a little slurred, but oddly stilted. “Cas, we need to get up." There was a pause. “Cas, get your sword.”

“That’s not what we told you to say,” An unfamiliar, low voice growled.There was a snort of laughter, high-pitched, from someone else.

_“Wake up, little bird. Wake up!"_ _Her hand on his forehead was pulled away,_ and the headache returned with a vengeance.

"Cas,” Azriel said again, urgently. “Cas, help-... mmmmmf!"

Cas went from dead asleep and trapped in tangled prison dreams to total wakefulness nearly instantly, centuries of military training guiding his body back to consciousness even as his mind lagged behind and he could still feel her kiss on his lips.

He sat up, groaning at the painful nausea that gripped his stomach, going to throw off the blanket, half-convinced he’d find he hadn’t left the prison cell at all. The guards would be calling for him to go to her room.  _ The Queen is lonely, Illyrian. Attend her. _ Or worse they’d be banging something on the bars to wake him up, hissing,  _ put your nose to the wall and put your wings out, you little shit, you’ve got visitors. _

“Be still, Illyrian.” There was a rasping voice, and Cas tried to open his eyes. They felt stuck together and he winced at the pain of even the dim faelight that lit the room. His head pounded even harder. He could see the glint of his blade still laid on the side table beside him. On the other side-

Azriel was on his stomach on the bed, blindfolded and gagged, his hands tied behind him, curled into fists, straining and struggling. There was a dark-haired male wearing a masquerade mask over his own face with a knee jammed hard into Azriel’s back, holding him still by pushing his face down into his pillow, as another tied his wings behind his back. They yanked too hard on the injured wing and Az half-shrieked at the pain.

Cas snarled, and even with a mind totally overrun by the odd fog, he grabbed for his sword. “Don’t you fucking  _ touch him- _ ” He could still feel her hands across his forehead and down his back, but they were turning to wisps and memories.

A hand clapped over his wrist and forced it back and away. “Not a good idea.” By the time Cas turned to look at who had touched him, he was already jerking his arm free and throwing a punch with his other hand. The blow connected, cracking hard against the male’s cheekbone, and Cas was up and out of the bed with his fingers around his sword, pushing back the bile that threatened to rise up his throat, ignoring the pounding behind his eyes. He stumbled hard to the side with the rush of dizziness, but kept himself standing, going into a low defensive posture he’d practiced for five centuries, muscle memory taking over where his slowed-down mind could not keep up.

The male he’d hit had pale skin heavily tanned from a lifetime spent outdoors and brilliant green eyes like Tamlin, but that was where the resemblance ended. His hair was a bright copper shock that nearly stood up from his head, cut short on one side and hanging over his eye on the other. Half his face was painfully beautiful in the way of the High Fae, with their high, defined cheekbones, pointed ears, and a wide mouth that might have been used to smiling once upon a time. Now it was twisted in a snarl.

The other half of his face was one giant roiling mass of burn scars. The hair on that side was just long enough to flop over a lump where his ear had once been. He had no eyebrow on the right side, and the scars continued down his neck. As he put a hand up to his face, eyes narrowing, Cas realized the scars went all the way down his arm to his hand, too.

“Who the fuck are you?” Cas growled, angry that his voice still slurred. He tried not to sway, but he could barely stand. “Let him go.” They were pulling Azriel to his feet, the two mask-wearing fae seemingly not even aware of him, and Cas snarled, lifting his sword. “I  _ said _ , let him go.” This wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to fight with some kind of poison pouring through his veins. He thought of Amarantha’s poisoned crossbow and nearly felt his knees give way. He forced himself to stand straight. 

“Put down the sword, Illyrian,” The scarred male said quietly. He was the source of the rasping voice, and Cas realized a scar he’d taken for more burns across the male’s throat was in fact from having this throat slit. “Just put it down and no one needs to get any more hurt.”

_ Someone had to heal him in time to survive that. Someone cared enough to save him, and was able to do so before he bled out. _

“No,” Cas said flatly. “Let my friend go and _ I  _ will let  _ you  _ leave here alive.”

The two males holding Azriel laughed. Azriel was still fighting his bonds, but Cas could see that the grip of his captors was really the only thing holding Azriel on his feet at all. They’d tied a cloth over his eyes. Azriel was fighting against the gag over his mouth.

The room stank of liquor and vomit and worse, and Cas tried to understand. Why did he  _ feel  _ like this? Azriel should have been able to take all three of them on like it was nothing, Cas too, so why was Azriel trussed up like a deer and Cas could barely move?

“Now, now, now, let’s not do anything hasty,” Raspy Voice said, putting both hands in the air. There was a bright red mark across the good side of his face where Cas had punched him. Raspy Voice looked sidelong at his friends. “Get the other one out of here.”

“ _ No!” _ Cas went to move towards Azriel, his concentration cracking only a little as they dragged Az towards the door. He kept his sword up, trying to circle around to get closer, Raspy Voice blocking him. “Don’t you fucking take him  _ anywhere. _ ”

It had been too easy, this past week. Cas had thought it to himself over and over. They’d kept a low profile and bought some weapons and dried meat and other provisions for the woods. They hadn’t made trouble, had kept to themselves. 

And it had all been too easy.

He knew what Lawless was - but he’d expected to leave Insurgent before they were attacked. He’d expected to have a reprieve.

He should have learned by now not to have those kinds of expectations. 

“Don’t worry, you’ll go with him,” Raspy Voice said soothingly. “You both must feel  _ terrible. _ My apologies for that, we were thinking you’d sleep a little longer and we’d have you outside before you woke. It’s hard to drug an Illyrian, your bodies work through everything so  _ fast. _ We’ve never been able to pick Illyrians up before, so I’m sorry if we got the dosage wrong. I promise it wasn’t intentional.”

“Drug… the liquor. Bartender gave us the second bottle for free.”

As if in response, his stomach tried to revolt and Cas fell to his knees, pressing an arm against his stomach. He managed not to throw up all over the floor, but it was a close thing. His face burned bright red, his skin hot and cold in equal measures. He pressed his forehead to the floor, thinking of her cool hand on his head in his dream.

He wanted that cool hand back. Fuck, this was messed up.

_ Amarantha, what do I do now? _

“Right. That. I’m sorry about that, too. Hate to ruin the local specialty for you on your first try. But you know, it’s our specialty for a reason. Strong taste. Masks a lot of other flavors. Next time I’ll give it to you straight, you’ll learn to like it.”

“There’s not going to be a next time, you bastard. Bring my friend back in here.”

He heard a thump from out in the hall, and hoped it meant what he thought it did. A second later, a shout from one of the males. Cas felt himself begin to smile and pushed himself carefully back onto his feet.

“Or maybe he’ll bring himself.”

This was a small room to fight in. There wasn’t much space for maneuvering and although he could feel his unfocused power roiling around behind his heart, he didn’t dare use it. He’d be more likely to set the whole inn on fire and burn Insurgent to the ground if he tried.

He had a feeling that Ty sitting up in the Administration building wouldn’t appreciate the two new Illyrians taking out the one safe town in the whole country in their first week.

“Shit.” Raspy Voice’s eyes flicked back towards the door, then to Cassian again. 

Cassian smiled, tightening his grip on his blade. It was lighter, made of lower-quality steel but still crafted to hold its own in a fight. The blade had a sharp curve towards the end, with wickedly serrated edges. He’d seen Amarantha wield a blade like this, once. Against him.

This room was small, and this fight would not be pretty. But Cas’s style had never been  _ pretty.  _ With the sound of Azriel putting up his own fight out in the hall, Cas attacked. 

Raspy Voice had his blade up just in time to block, and metal edges scraped together. Cas caught Raspy’s blade in one of the edges of his own and nearly twisted it out of his hand right then, but the other fae pulled back and dropped slightly down, pulling his blade free, twisting away a few feet, the two of them glaring at each other. 

“We’re as likely to cut ourselves as each other,” Cas said softly. 

“Seems like it,” Raspy Voice answered. He was still between Cas and the door. There was another shouted curse from outside, then a series of loud thumps as something fell down the stairs.

Then the two males who had been tying Azriel up when Cas had woken up laughed, and Cas’s stomach went cold. He growled and threw his sword up to attack again. 

He was blocked, but he tried to force his way through it anyway, pushing hard against the other male’s blade until both their arms were shaking from the force of it. Hemmed in by close walls and furniture, the fight was brutal and quick. His head pounded and Cas poured sweat, could smell sour liquor in his pores, had to fight his own body wanting to collapse or vomit or worse while he tried to get around Raspy Voice to go after Azriel.

Blade against blade, the two of them moved fast as lightning, but Cas realized that Raspy Voice was fighting by the book. This was someone who had learned fighting but had never done this before, not like this in close quarters. If he’d had any experience, any at all, he’d have taken a drugged-up Cas out in seconds.

Cas bumped into the side table as he was forced back, black hair sticking to his damp forehead. “Drop your sword,” Raspy Voice said smugly.

Azriel let out a cry from somewhere down the stairs. “Cas! Cas-mmmmpphhfff!” 

Azriel was calling his name.

Cas turned furious glowing hazel eyes on Raspy Voice. Panting, he dropped the sword, hearing it clatter to the ground. 

He swallowed, hard. Azriel needed help down there. Cas could barely stand but Azriel needed him.  _ I love you so fucking much.  _ He locked his knees as best he could to keep himself up, the pounding pain in his head nearly unbearable. 

“Good, thank you, was that so hard?” Raspy Voice rolled his eyes. He held his own blade out, pointed right at Cas. “Calm down and nobody has to get… any more hurt. Let’s go downstairs, nice and easy.”

“Fine. Downstairs, then.” Cas took a couple of stumbling steps, waiting until he was close enough to reach out and touch the scarred-up fae. Then he simply threw himself at him, taking him down with arms around his waist, knocking him onto his back on the floor, half out the door, half inside the room. He threw punches without hesitation, snarling like the animal Amarantha had thought he was, feeling the satisfying crunch of his knuckles connecting with bone and skin, the snap of a broken nose.

It felt so good. Fighting had always felt  _ so good. _

“Stop-” Raspy Voice scrabbled at him ineffectually, not able to get a grip to stop him. There was another muffled cry and Cas’s head snapped up, looking towards the door. He threw one more punch, gratified as he watched the other fae’s head crack into the floor and his body go limp. “Now the good side of your face can match the burned one,” Cas said, spitting at him as he stood, swaying on his feet. He was going to be sick.

He could be sick after he helped Azriel.

He glared out the door, swaying on his feet, hearing more thumps, the sound of a table scraping along the floor.

“Now for the rest of you,” He said, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, his knuckles coated in blood. He’d be bruised tomorrow. 

He didn’t give a damn.

Azriel needed help.

Cas stepped out the door, then stumbled hard onto his knees as Raspy Voice grabbed at his ankle with both hands. He growled and spun around, kicking Raspy Voice in his burned-up face with his free foot. “Let go! He needs me!”

“Orders are orders,” Raspy Voice slurred. He’d busted his lip and Cas could see the blood. “Sorry, really very sorry about this, but-”

“Orders are orders, I get it. I don’t give a fuck about your  _ orders,  _ Az  _ needs me! _ "

Downstairs had gone silent. Cas picked his sword back up, hazel eyes sparking with rage, and headed for the stairs.

“Wait- they’re just following orders like I am-” Raspy Voice pleaded from behind him. 

Cas snorted, turning around to kick him in the stomach for good measure, feeling a kind of pleasure hearing the ‘oof’ and helpless groan as the scarred fae curled up around himself, gasping for air. “Whose?”

“Mine,” said a warm, melodic voice from just down the hall. It was the sort of voice that you heard in con men and lovers, drawing you in, begging you to take a closer look. “That wasn’t very nice. Volgen is my  _ friend.”  _ Cas turned slowly to look.

When he saw who it was, he froze. “ _ You? _ ”

The Peregryn from the prison ship stood in the doorway, leaning lightly against it with his arms folded over his chest. Cas could just see his right wing dragging the ground as always, the tips of the feathers worn away or dirty.

Instead of the ragged, half-torn hand-me-downs he’d been wearing on board the ship, he had on a loose, clean blue shirt and dark pants. He’d been scrubbed and his lightly colored hair shone, where on the ship the Peregryn had been dirty and his hair had hung in lank clumps around his face. If it weren’t for his wing Cas might not even have recognized him. “You’ll have to forgive my poor dear Volgen. He only knows one way to go about doing things.”

“The way you  _ told me to _ ,” Volgen said, spitting blood onto the floor, pushing himself to his feet behind Cas, who shifted warily, trying to keep them both in his vision even as his headache seemed to suddenly worsen. “You’re the one who said to drug ‘em. We’ve always drugged ‘em.”

“In my defense,” The Peregryn said cheerfully, “I was under the impression you were even  _ remotely _ competent at the job you’ve been doing since we got here _. _ You’d think that after, what, your twenty-fifth direct capture, you’d be a bit better at it.”

“Never had to get Illyrians before,” Volgen muttered, picking his sword up, groaning. “No one sends Illyrians here. They don’t drug easy.”

“No,” The Peregryn said softly, watching Cas’s face with a gentle, loving smile. “None of the winged fae do. Our hearts are larger than yours to pump the blood more effectively up in the thinner air. I should have told you.”

“Yes,” Volgen spat. “You should have.”

“You’re not dead? But the ship...” Cas could hardly think. Azriel was down there somewhere-

"You’ll find I very much am not, Illyrian. Cauldron knows they tried their best, but, well… I’m a hard bird to kill. Always have been. They were by no means the first group of fae to try.”

It was late, wasn’t it? He couldn’t hear any noise from downstairs any longer. Everyone was asleep or in whatever they had that passed for a home. The birds were silent outside. It must be the small hours of the morning, and anyone in this inn who heard the commotion would know better than to come out and get themselves dragged into it. Outside the tiny window whose shutters Cas had closed when they’d fallen into bed together, the sun must not yet have begun to rise. 

Outside it would be the gray hour before the dawn.

“You must be tired,” The Peregryn said, in a lovely voice that Cas hated more than any other voice he’d ever heard. At least Amarnatha had had the good grace to  _ sound  _ as evil as she was. “You had quite a bit to drink and you have  _ no idea  _ what we put in it.”

He was tired, though, this asshole was right about that much. He was fucking  _ exhausted.  _

The Peregryn was tall when he did not slouch over like he had in the ship, tall and thin but heavily muscled, especially around his shoulders. His pale hair, hair that could have been white or a yellow so light it was nearly white regardless, fell over tanned skin. He had the delicately honed features and upswept eyes common to the Dawn Court and actually looked a little like Thesan’s Peregryn lover. The brilliant, piercingly sky blue eyes that had been so fogged-over and sad in the brig were sparkling with cheerful good humor now.

Cas hadn’t noticed before, since he’d worn long sleeves on the ship, but the other fae’s wrists were heavily scarred. His own had the beginnings of scars like that, not quite dug in to that extent because… only because he hadn’t belonged to Amarantha long enough. 

Those scars meant the Peregryn had worn manacles, too, at some point - and his had been made to be just a little too tight. Cas felt the urge to scratch starting up again and forced it back down. He felt dulled, hardly able to think. He couldn’t seem to move, to fight again. It must have been the steady drumbeat of pain in his mind, the fog that wrapped him up, the lasting effects of whatever had been in that liquor the bartender had given them.

It was silent downstairs, and it was  _ never silent here.  _ Cas blinked, looking suddenly up. “The bartender was in on it, wasn’t he?” The winged fae in the doorway only smiled wider. “You bribed him to put something in our drinks and empty this place out so your fucking goons could kill us.” 

“I did not ask them to _ kill  _ you. I just asked them to bring you to speak with me, but unfortunately, they only know one method of persuasion. It’s worked very well for all the others we’ve brought over - well, except the ones who are dead, they would probably argue it didn’t work so well - but you sure threw them for a loop, hmm? I imagine they assumed you would be easy pickings, as people like them like to say. But I know who you are. Lower your sword and speak with me, I’ve been trying to track you down ever since the ship wrecked.” His blue eyes were as like a clear sky on a hot summer day. “Volgen, apologize to our new friend.”

Volgen glared daggers at them with, but slowly, stiffly, he nodded. “Sorry,” He rasped. “We misunderstood the boss’s orders.”

“Not sure how,” The Peregryn said thoughtfully, and shrugged. “I felt my commands were  _ very clear.  _ Ah, well. I’ll forgive you this one slip-up.”

“You’re too kind,” Volgen rasped, but even in his harsh whisper Cas could hear the sarcasm.

"Are you bandits?” Cas frowned, wishing he knew where Azriel was. The door hadn’t opened, as far as he could tell, but he couldn’t hear anything at all down the stairs, and the Peregryn still blocked his path. Somehow, he couldn’t seem to take the step forward to attack him. 

“No, we’re not bandits.” Volgen snorted again and the Peregryn shot him an indulgent smile. “I’m not, at least. Volgen might be.”

“Are you slavers? Are there more of you?” It hadn’t even occurred to him that fae might be enslaved on the continent. And a country full of rejected fae would be a great place to pick yourself up someone who no one would miss, who had no one coming to save them.

“There are a few more that answer to me, yes. But as for this very moment… it’s just us chickens.” The winged male laughed again, and the sound seemed to bounce off the walls like a melody. The sound made the pounding in his head worse, and he closed his eyes against it. His sword felt like an iron weight in his hand dragging him down. All he wanted in the world was to lay it on the ground. He didn’t really need it, after all, did he?

As soon as he realized that he wanted to drop the sword, he purposefully tightened his grip until it hurt, until he could feel the aged, cracking leather beginning to give way under his fingers. Sure enough, he watched the Peregryn’s eyes narrow, just a little. 

_ (how long will it take you to sing for me, little bird?) _

Cas stepped forward, keeping his sword ready, eyes narrowed. “I’m not a fucking bird.”

“I’m sorry, what?” The Peregryn blinked, clearly baffled. 

_ (sing for me) _

“Where is Azriel?”

“He’s fine, don’t worry.” The Peregryn’s smile went rueful, a little sad. All of his expressions were so warm and sincere and Cassian had seen snakes who smiled just like that before they sunk in their fangs. “He’s been hurt like I have. I’d never hurt him… much.”

“I’ve been hurt, too,” Cas said flatly, and held up his wrist, letting the faintest hint of the scars and the newer scratches show. 

The Peregryn slowly raised an eyebrow. “So you have been. I wondered. Don’t worry. You won’t have to wear them with us. We have no need of chains.” Cas saw the first sign of a negative emotion when the Peregryn’s mouth twisted bitterly in memory, something almost like anger. “I don’t like to have them around, anyway.”

“Good. Then I can freely kick your ass and run off.”

The Peregryn laughed, a deep, rich laugh. Every sound he made, every emotion written across his face, seemed designed to suggest he was the most trustworthy person in the room. “No, I think you’ll find you can’t do that. Oh, general, I can’t tell you how glad I am that you survived the shipwreck. How’d you do it?”

“I… can open locked prison cells.” Well… that was sort of true. “Or I managed it the once, anyway. I got us out.”

“You understand why I find that hard to believe. I  _ fed _ you for nearly a month. Your… friend… threw up every bite he ate, and  _ you-”  _ Those light, sky blue eyes bored into Cas. “... well. You were scared of me.” 

“Not of you.” Cas turned his head to the side, eyes narrowed.

The Peregryn raised one well-formed pale eyebrow. “You  _ stunk _ of fear and hate and you couldn’t meet my eyes. You’d have thanked me if I kicked you between your legs when you were down there, just to make sure I didn’t get angry that you didn’t.”

“It wasn’t about  _ you _ . It’s not you I was scared of. It’s not my first time locked in a cell.” Cas nearly spat the words. “The novelty wore off quickly last time.”

_ Yggrad didn’t like the way you looked at him yesterday, be grateful we’re just roughing you up a little and not taking your eyes. Up on your knees, Naylen. Spit on us again and we’ll hang you by your wings, you Illyrian shit. _

“I’m sorry. I argued that you be simply held inside a room. We had the space available, for once. Since I wasn’t actually  _ supposed  _ to be part of the crew, the captain was not inclined to hear me out, and he was unfortunately one of the few in this world totally immune to my… charisma. You know how it is. My apologies for your captivity, that was unnecessary.”

“That’s one word for what it was,” Cas muttered. “If you’re not a bandit and you’ve been following us, are you… here to kill us? We don’t have anything you want. We pretty much don’t have  _ anything.  _ Just let Azriel go-”

“ _ Kill you? _ ” The Peregryn laughed out loud, and Cas suppressed a flinch as the sound stabbed him behind the eyes with new agony. “Oh Cauldron, no. I heard two Illyrians had been spotted in Insurgent, heard from my man that they picked up a room with a single bed, and I had to see if it was really you. I’m glad it was.” He smiled, warm and sincere again. “Especially you. We need to stick together, you know? Those like you and I. And like you and I and  _ him. _ ”

“Am I like you?”. 

“Aren’t you? Your friend nearly made a mistake that cost him his wings, just like I did, all three of us struggle with an aspect of ourselves that would lead to  _ judgement  _ in the eyes of the world.”

“Azriel’s  _ mistake  _ was merely that a madwoman wanted to keep me as her pet, and Azriel disagreed with her,” Cas said in a flat voice.  _ Azriel, where are you? _ “And the Dawn Court doesn’t mind males who prefer each other.”

“The aspect of me that would be judged is not a preference for males. You’re right. They don’t mind that, in the Dawn Court.” He shrugged, frowning faintly, as though at a troublesome memory. 

"What was yours, then?”

“My what?”

“Your  _ mistake.  _ What made them cut your wing?”

“My mistake,” The Peregryn said, a little sadly, “was believing that I could prevent a catastrophe, and listening when someone I loved told me I had the talent and skill to survive the process. Trust me, I can’t wait to see him in person again to do to him what was done to me. You may still be able to fly. I was not so lucky… and he won’t be, either.” The Peregryn spat to the side, just to the left of Cas’s feet. “I’ll make sure Syvet is in utter Cauldron-damned  _ agony  _ when I cut his tendons myself. I wonder if Thesan will still want him when he’s useless?”

“So how did you survive?” Cas asked. “And why are you here?”

“Well, to answer your second question first, because I live here. I’ve lived in Lawless for… ten years, seven months, and six days. Give or take,” He said a little distantly. “As for how I survived…” He shrugged, and smiled, opening his hands wide with his arms out. “I have a valuable skill and while it was suppressed, they could not do away with it, and they intended to break me and use it. The aspect of myself that I mentioned before. The one the Dawn Court would judge as something that damns me.”

“What skill is that?” Cas had a sinking feeling he was about to learn, and he wasn’t going to like it. 

The Peregryn stepped closer, with that bright and friendly smile. Cas wasn’t fooled by it, and he slowly lifted his blade, fighting against how heavy his arm felt, how much he simply wanted to be done with this. He leaned over, looking Cas in the eyes with his bright blue gaze focused entirely on Cas. “This one.” 

_ Let the sword go, Cassian,  _ said that warm golden voice inside his head, dripping like honey.  _ You’re not going to need it any longer. _

He wanted to drop his sword. He wanted to drop his sword so  _ badly _ . It took all his effort not to do so, to keep holding it, but every bit of instinct screamed at him to do it, to drop it, to let it go and give it away. His grip slowly began to loosen.

Volgen stepped lightly around him and he couldn’t move. He stared with wide, nearly sightless eyes as the scarred fae, blood smeared underneath his broken nose and a look of resignation on his face, reached out and plucked his sword from his suddenly useless hands.

“Hey, fuck you-” The words died in his throat as the shadow of a bird of prey brushed against his thoughts. “No. No, not-”

_ You don’t need it, anyway, not any longer. _

“I don’t need the sword any longer,” He said numbly. 

“You sure about this, boss?” Volgen asked, squinting at Cas, who stood stock-still and frozen in place. “They’re trouble. Amarantha couldn’t keep them under control.”

“Amarantha was obsessed and insane and had no natural power of her own,” the Peregryn said with disgust. “I am neither of those things and I  _ have  _ power. I don’t intend to torment a bunch of egotistical pricks because one idiot wouldn’t go to bed with me. I could simply _ make _ him.” He winked at Cas. “And if I did, he’d forever remember it as the best night of his life.”

“... gross, boss.”

“Now, Cassian. Have you guessed yet? What my particular skill is?”

“You’re daemati,” Cas ground out.

The Peregryn clapped his hands together in delight. “Correct!”

“But only the Night Court-”

“Oh, that’s not true, that’s a myth.” That lovely melodic laugh rang out again, and Cas realized to his horror that he sort of liked the sound of it. One side of his face had begun to itch, but he couldn’t lift a hand to scratch it. The Peregryn had gotten in without him feeling a thing. 

“Now, about what you drank… let’s see if we can’t help that a little. Here.” The Peregryn put a hand to the side of his face and although Cas felt his fingers twitch, he couldn’t move to push him away. After a second, he felt his headache lessen, just a little, soothed and softened by the fog the daemati was wrapping him up in inside his head.

“Shall we go downstairs and rejoin your friend? He’s probably unconscious by now.”

Cas closed his eyes, just for a second, and had to force them open again. “Don’t hurt him,” he said, softly. “Just don’t hurt him. Don’t-”

“Ah,” The Peregryn said out loud, after a long pause. “Aren’t you sweet? Is that what she did to you? Threatened him? Well, that’s not a problem. Let me reassure your fearful mind, Illyrian; I have no intention of using you against each other and I’m not the sort to commit any untoward acts. Don’t worry, this won’t be the same kind of prison as hers.” He smiled brightly, flicking the end of Cas’s nose with his fingertips playfully. Cas tried to punch him in the face - nothing happened. “I am not in the business of molesting my captives.”

“How reassuring for me to hear when you’ve trapped me inside my own body,” Cas snapped, having to force the words out. “And you could do anything and we couldn’t stop you.”

“I don’t know why you’re complaining to  _ me _ about that. You’re the one who didn’t want to put down your sword when Volgen asked you to. I’m not going to say it again, Cassian, but if it’s more reassuring… you’re not the kind of fae I’m interested in.”

Cas barked out a harsh laugh. “Who _ is?” _

The Peregryn fixed him with a thoughtful stare, the cheerful smile faded into the first sign of true hostility Cas had seen yet. Those blue eyes were dark angry pools. “I don’t know… someone less… angry?”

“I’m  _ very  _ cheerful with Azriel. Maybe the problem is you.” 

“Please don’t make me take your voice away. Walk with me.”

The Peregryn turned and walked down the stairs and Cas stumbled unwillingly after him, his feet moving without his consent. He could feel himself being wrapped up in the talons of that bird of prey, of the feathers that blanketed him. It felt like Amarantha’s spell and not like it at all. She had been a splash of blood that ran into every corner of his mind, infected it like a virus. Her trying to use Rhysand’s daemati powers, at the end, had been like being hit in the head with bricks.

This was soft and gentle, like a mother’s touch during an illness. It was like Amarantha’s hand on his forehead in his dream. Cas trusted it even less than he had Amarantha’s. At least she was  _ openly  _ evil.

His feet clumped loudly on the stairs. Volgen was just behind him and Cas had his hands clenched into fists, wishing he could fight. Daemati tricks were a dirty way to win, as far as he was concerned, and even Rhys rarely used them.

His power beat wildly behind his heart, erratic and angry. 

“Just let us go,” Cas said through gritted teeth, each word forced out from around the control. He understood the strangely mechanical way Volgen had fought him now; he’d been daemati-controlled. Volgen wasn’t fighting by the book; he was fighting with someone else pulling the strings that made him move. 

“Get ready to go, boys,” The Peregryn said as he reached the bottom of the stairs. In the meantime, Cas could still feel him in his head. He’d seen Azriel pick a lock using a sewing needle once, and the Peregryn in his head was a little like that. It didn’t even  _ hurt _ . He hadn’t realized what it was until it was already too late. This was control like Rhys’s, well-trained and honed over centuries of practice. This was someone who could remake you in a thought and you’d never know a thing.

“Boys?” The Peregryn said, confused, as they reached the main room of the inn.

There was no one there. **  
**


	19. That's My Shadowsinger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am posting a bit early again, I hope no one minds! I might just go to a general 'weekly' posting schedule instead of a specific day, I'm debating that. Would you prefer 'whenever it's done each week' or a specific day to expect an update on?

The room was dark, with all the shutters closed and the chairs stacked neatly on top of the tables. The faint smell of liquor and smoke and old food hung in the air and everything was silent. Cas heard a bird start singing just outside and looked down. Underneath a table nearby, he could see a length of rope, a few feet long, coiled up. One end of the rope had been roughly sawed apart. A shadow twisted around it, made its slow and nearly invisible way around Cas’s bare feet, slid a cold tendril around his ankle.

Cas fought back a smile.  _ That’s my shadowsinger. _

“What the fuck? Did they go on ahead?” Volgen frowned, putting a hand on Cas’s shoulder. 

“No,” The Peregryn said with dawning concern. It wasn’t worry or fear, not just yet. “They couldn’t have. I did not tell them to.”

“Boss.” Volgen’s scarred face paled. “Boss, look-”

He was pointing, and Cas and the Peregryn both turned at the same second.

The bodies of the two men who had bound Azriel were piled up in front of the fireplace. Their throats had been slit until they had nearly lost their heads, and a pool of blood was slowly spreading out from where they laid. The cloth they’d used to cover Azriel’s mouth and eyes had been carefully laid out in flat strips on top of them. 

The floorboards creaked across the room. Cas, frozen by the Peregryn’s talons, could only control his smile.

“Well, this isn’t a good sign,” The Peregryn said softly.

“This is the  _ best sign, _ ” Cas said fiercely.

“Think he ran?” Volgen rasped.

The floorboards creaked again. There was nothing but shadows in the corner the sound seemed to be coming from. Volgen and the Peregryn shifted uneasily closer to one another, then just as quickly apart, staring around the dark room. The bolt to the inn door was still closed from the inside. 

“No, he’s definitely here,” The Peregryn said. “He’s a shadowsinger - he’s probably hiding in the corner where it’s dark. Let’s just go for the door.”

“We should’ve taken ‘em one at a time,” Volgen muttered. “Like I said to in the first place.”

“You should have just left us the fuck alone,” Cas piped up. 

“Learn to shut up,” The Peregryn snapped, all his genial warmth gone, replaced by a blazing fury, his voice a snarl. When Cas turned to look at him, surprised at the sudden shift in tone, the Peregryn’s eyes were… different, somehow, a darker blue than they had been before. “I guess I should have assumed you’d have a mouth on you,” He said in a voice that didn’t sound like his own at all. “Did those courtiers Under the Mountain not make good enough use of it?” He hit Cas hard across the back of the head, sending him stumbling forward, then grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back, tightening his grip until Cas let out a groan at the pain. There was a strange look on his face, something slightly distant, as though the Peregryn fought twin urges to enjoy or to loathe his own behavior. “Ah. Don’t like that, hm?” 

He pulled a little harder.

“I’m guessing you  _ do, _ ” Cas snarled, helplessly caught between the hand in his hair and the feathers in his mind.

“Hm. My lord wants me to, so I do, that’s true. I wonder… was it not your  _ mouth  _ they were interested in, Under the Mountain? Is  _ that  _ why you’re such a fucking coward behind bars?"

There was an angry hiss and Azriel dropped from the ceiling and landed directly on top of the Peregryn, who collapsed under his weight onto the floor in a graceless heap. Azriel’s hazel eyes glowed in the darkness of the room and he spread his wings to their full breadth, one just slightly lower than the other, snarling like a demon.

The Peregryn tried to twist around and throw a punch, but Azriel dodged it and quickly jabbed back. His shadows whirled around him, and the Peregryn flinched as they began to bite, leaving tiny bloody cuts everywhere they went.

The hold on Cas broke with the Peregryn’s surprise and he spun, slamming his right fist into Volgen’s face and shoving him back into a table. Volgen put his arms up to defend himself and Cas felt himself smile, baring all his teeth, kicking out at Volgen’s knees instead, nearly knocking him off his feet.

The fight was a desperate scrabble on all sides.

Cas and Az were still slow from the drugged liquor, missing their openings, throwing punches a second too late. Cas’s head still pounded, worse than ever now, and he took more hits from Volgen than he should have as his exhausted, aching body struggled to keep up with his mind. Azriel and the Peregryn were a tangle of snarling limbs and sharp teeth and wings, Azriel’s shadows slipping over and around them, trying to hold the Peregryn down, keep him too distracted to use his daemati powers. He kept slipping out of their grasp.

Cas finally landed the blow he’d been hoping for. Volgen went down hard, and this time he stayed down. Cas turned, intending to help Az, only to realize the shadowsinger did not need his help at all any longer.

Azriel had pinned the Peregryn to the floor on his stomach by grabbing onto the base of his injured wing and pulling as hard as he could, his eyes wide and lit up with a deep and endless rage but his expression otherwise empty. He let go for a fraction of a second to reach up under his own shirt, pulling out a small dagger Cas hadn’t even known was hidden there, jamming it through the Peregryn’s broken wing so hard the dagger  _ thunked  _ heavily into the floor, pinning down the Peregryn’s wing. 

The Peregryn screamed at the pain, and a small smile played over Azriel’s face. He was panting, but everything about him was lit up, truly  _ alive.  _ “You don’t get to fuck him up,” Azriel growled, and Cas could nearly hear the shadows echoing his words. “No one does. My Cas.  _ Mine. _ ” Azriel’s hands were bloody up to the wrists and there were bloody spots on his face and soaking his sleeping clothes. He looked slowly up at Cassian with his glowing eyes and, while the two watched each other, he smiled and jammed a second knife through the Peregryn’s other wing.

“You’re  _ mine _ , Cas,” Azriel said, the way anyone else might have said  _ I’m so glad you’re not hurt. _

Cas, breathing hard and with his heart pounding in his throat in time with his headache, looked down at his own bloody knuckles and laughed weakly. “I’m all yours,” He agreed. “As long as you return the favor.”

“You know I do,” Azriel said lovingly, twisting the knife in the Peregryn’s wing. “Together.”

Cas caught his breath. “Always. I love the way you look when someone else is bleeding.”

Volgen, lying on the ground underneath a table nearby, curled up with his hands over his stomach, groaned, “I told you Illyrians were disgusting.” 

“This isn’t wise-” The Peregryn fought and struggled and spoke in a thin voice, trying to pull himself free, wings pinned and bleeding onto the floor. The shadows were cutting him, Cas thought, drawing more blood, keeping the daemati Peregryn’s mind focused on where they would cut next even as the knives held him to the floor. “You’re needed- at least one of you- you could go-”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Azriel hissed, and his voice was echoed by his shadows, leaving trails of shallow wounds that bled wherever they went. “Do you understand?”

The Peregryn stopped fighting and went very still. “I understand,” He said, and there was something almost plaintive in him now. “I’m not the one you need to fear. I had hoped to do this the easy way, but if you insist on playing hard to get…”

“Drugging us and kidnapping us was the  _ easy way? _ ” Cas laughed, a little breathlessly. “You’re  _ exactly  _ as crazy as Amarantha.”

“I’m not,” The Peregryn said, and winced as he pulled too hard on one of his pinned wings. The rage was back in his eyes, and the part of Cas that still remembered self-preservation made him want to step away and get some distance between them. "I’m  _ not like her. _ I’m going to get ahold of your minds again and I’ll rip you the  _ fuck  _ apart-”

“See, that actually _ supports _ my theory that you’re crazy.” Cas held out a hand and Azriel took it, standing up and giving the Peregryn a kick in the ribs as he went.  They left him there with his wings still pinned to the floor.

“We have to get out of here,” Cas said softly. “But I don’t even know if I could fly right now. I’m so dizzy it’s hard work just to walk straight.”

“Then we don’t fly,” Az said with a shrug, moving past him to undo the bolt that locked the door. He opened it up, blinking into the darkness outside. “We’ll head out of Insurgent right now.”

“Az, we don’t have anything-”

Az turned back to look at him, shrugging. “Do we need anything? We’ll steal what we need. We’re criminals, remember?” 

Cas looked over his shoulder, watching as the Peregryn twisted himself, teeth ground against the pain, and slowly began to pull one of the knives out of his wings, tossing it to the side. Volgen hadn’t moved, but Cas had the feeling that he could have, if he’d wanted to… and he was making the safer choice of staying very still on the floor and hoping no one would notice.

“Let’s go quickly,” Cas said, shoving Azriel ahead of him to get him out the door. There were no guards in the streets, only the stragglers out in those dark hours before dawn. He saw two of the ‘stragglers’, who had been lurking over by a building down the road, point and yell something.  _ Of course they’d have backup. Damn it. _

The two Illyrians couldn’t exactly blend in with a crowd, but there was one thing they could do…

Cas grabbed Azriel by one arm and took a hard right down a pitch-black alley, between two of the crookedly-tilted buildings, where only his Illyrian eyesight kept him from being completely blind. There were shouts behind them, but he didn’t pause or look back.

They had no blades - theirs had been left in the inn, along with their only change of clothes, all the rest of the coins they had left, and the supplies they’d bought for traveling up into the hills. All they had were the clothes on their backs and unSiphoned power waiting for another chance to boil his skin away.

_ Why the fuck would anyone want to lock us up here? I’ve never met any of these fae before in my life. _

“Cas, I-I think I’m going to be sick,” Az muttered, and they stumbled to a stop. He didn’t even know how many turns they’d taken by now; he’d been going based entirely off an inner sense of direction, the vague awareness that they were headed largely north towards the edge of town. He heard pounding feet behind them and pushed Azriel up against a wall, ignoring the stench of old garbage someone had tossed out here to rot out of sight. His own stomach rebelled and his temples throbbed. 

“They fucking  _ drugged us, _ ” Cas hissed to him, pulling him down into a crouch. “I can’t believe they- Cauldron-damned  _ slavers…  _ Use your shadows, Az, quick-”

Azriel wrapped them up in his darkness and Cas shivered as the touch of that insubstantial chill made its way across every inch of his body, disguising him as simply another shadow on the wall.

It was Volgen who went running by with two more lesser fae with him, not even pausing, clearly not even slightly suspicious of the possibly lumpier-than-average dark spot along the alley wall. Volgen never even looked around as they kept running, pointed at something to the left, and went that way. They stayed silent and still for a couple more minutes, until Az finally dispelled the shadows, swallowing hard. “We need to get somewhere where I can sit still for a while,” He said hoarsely. “M-my stomach-”

“I know. I… got most of mine out when I woke up, I think. If we were anything but Illyrians, we’d be unconscious and kidnapped right now.”

“No guarantee we won’t end up at least one of those things again,” Az said, words slurred slightly. “I need to th-throw mine up, I can’t… is the world spinning to you?”

“Yes. Not as much as it is to you, but… yes. Shit. What do we do now?”

“Find somewhere to get this shit out of our systems and then fly like hell,” Azriel groaned, pushing himself back to his feet, leaning heavily on the wall. He was white-faced and shivering even in the warmth of this southern seaside town. They both were.

And they were barefoot.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Cas muttered. “I didn’t even notice.”

“What?”

“We left our fucking shoes.”

There was a moment of silence and then Azriel laughed, softly, putting his hands up over his face. “Just like when we were kids. Think we can find someone, beat him up, and take his?”

“I doubt they just give you three lashes here,” Cas replied, but found himself smiling, too.

“If they did, they’d probably think it was bizarre when we took it as an incentive to steal even better next time.”

“At least we don’t need coats.”

Their laughter was irrational and breathless, sounded a little hysterical, but he couldn’t stop himself. Adding  _ being drugged  _ to the list of nonsense they’d survived just seemed so absolutely ridiculous… what else could he do but laugh?

“Psssst!” Both of them jumped at the sudden whisper and turned to look. There was a shape leaning out of a doorway that was just barely cracked open wide enough a little further down the alley. Cas squinted, standing up, prepared to defend himself until he realized who it was.

The fae male with his head peeking out the doorway gestured them closer, his eyes darting back and forth to the ends of the alley, gestured for them to come closer.

“Wait… aren’t you the Dawn Court from before? Ausro? From the ship?”

The Dawn Court prisoner who had taken up stealing after spending time in the dissident tunnels nodded frantically. “You remembered my name! I thought it sounded like your voices. Quick, get in here before someone sees you. The guards have been bribed, if you’re caught out here you’re done.”

“H-how do you know…” 

“There’s a brothel on the other side of this wall,” Ausro said, pointing. “I’m renting this room from the madam, and she told me to stay in here and not come out after midnight no matter what, that they would be out here hunting and I might get swept up in it, too. I’m just glad you came down my alleyway. Come on, I owe you for saving my life. Get in here.”

They stumbled through the door into a small, dark room that had one narrow mattress with some blankets on the ground, a table with a single chair, and a small fireplace where a single cup, bowl, and set of silverware was lined up on the mantle. “It’s not much, but it’s a place to hide, right?”

“Right,” Cas said firmly. “And wait. We need some time to recover. They… made us sick. Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Ausro said sincerely. He lit faelights around the room. “You saved my life when that ship was attacked. Just call it repaying my debt and don’t you dare say I owe you a moment more than this. For once, I’m actually glad this place doesn’t have a window. No one can see you in here. Who’s after you?”

“I have no fucking idea,” Cas said, letting himself slowly slide to the floor, sitting with his back against the wall, looking down at his knuckles. They were scraped and bruised from punching Volgen and he smiled at the familiar twinge of pain. Bruised-up knuckles had always meant a job well done, to him.

“Why are you helping us?” He asked, letting his head tilt back until it rested against the wall, closing his eyes.

“I’ve been hunted down before,” Ausro said, looking uneasily to the side. “Remember? I ended up in the dissident tunnels thanks to one of her  _ raids. _ ”

Azriel took the chair, slumping over with his head in his arms. “Ooooh, I feel so bad,” He muttered.

“What’s wrong?” Ausro asked. “Do you want me to make you some food?”

“No!” Az and Cas said at the same time, both of them looking up frantically as their stomachs flipped hard.

“Oh.” Ausro looked between them, putting his hands in the air. “Your faces and wings just turned the exact same shade of green. Did you know your bodies do that? Whatever’s in you must be strong. Um… Water?”

“Water would be great,” Az said, dropping his head back into his arms again. His mop of curly black hair was sweaty.

“Water, please,” Cas said. “I’ll kick Az for not being more polite later, I promise, but I’d really rather not stand right now.”

“Kick me and you’ll regret it,” Az’s muffled voice came from behind his arms.

“Don’t worry,” Ausro said, pouring Azriel a tall glass of water in the single cup and handing Cas the whole damn water pitcher. “What’s your next step? They’ll keep trying to find you. If you want, though, I can help you get out of town. I’m about to leave myself.”

“Can we go with you? We, uh… need to hide out… apparently. We’re headed up to the lawmen’s town in the hills.”

“I’m not headed  _ that _ way, but I can get you smuggled out of here without being seen. I’m going with some others who want to try and find a way back to Prythian and we can keep you hidden when we go.” Cas looked up at Ausro. The Dawn Court fae had their dusky-dark skin, a color that no one else had, and the finely-wrought features, delicate but strong underneath, like steel that had been layered with gold filigree. He smiled at Cas with a wide mouth, and his upswept eyes made Cas think of Thesan, although they were very different in color. 

They were… blue, weren’t they? It was hard to tell in the dim light in the room. Something in Cas’s mind rang at the color, but he couldn’t figure out why. He was exhausted and sick and dizzy, and it wasn’t like blue eyes were exactly rare in the fae...

“Why would you want to go back to Prythian? I thought the Dawn Court-”

“I’m not going back to the Dawn Court right away,” Ausro said, his voice a little harder. “Right now I’m thinking of starting in  _ Autumn _ Court, actually. But I’ve had a week here and that’s been more than enough. I found some other fae who said they have a way to get back and get rid of our marks, so…” He shrugged. “I’ll take you with us at first. We’ll hide you.”

“Go back?” Az asked, looking up slightly, hazel eyes glinting just above his folded arms. “And get rid of our marks? That can be done?” He met Cas’s gaze and Cas knew they’d had the same thought - Kealah had removed her mark. Was she related to this somehow?

“If we got our marks off, we could go back home to Rhys,” Cas said out loud. 

“We could use the stone and it wouldn’t set anything off,” Azriel pointed out, pulling it out of the pocket of his sleeping pants. “I still have it.”

“The fae I’m going with say there’s someone who can take them off, but the process is… rough. You can come with me if you want and see. I’ll make sure you’re safe. I don’t know what you two were given, you definitely look like you’re still feeling it. Plus, the madam told me who’s running the group hunting you, and trust me… you don’t want anything to do with him.”

“Why?” Cas asked, frowning. “You know him?”

Ausro nodded slowly. “I might. He’s a Peregryn, right? The one from the ship?”

“... You  _ knew  _ him? Why didn’t you-”

“I was in a  _ prison cell,  _ Cassian. I thought it might be risky to let on that I recognized him. I kept myself to myself just like you did. I remembered him. His name is Erosyn, and he’s a daemati.”

“Yeah,” Cas groaned, drinking freely from the water pitcher. “We figured that out the hard way tonight.”

“We did?” Azriel blinked, finally lifting his head all the way, wincing as it must have made his headache worse. “He’s daemati?”

“Yep,” Cas said, closing his own eyes slowly. “He took over for a minute. You broke me out when you landed on him like a sack of potatoes.”

“I was  _ definitely  _ more graceful than that.”

Ausro had eyes that were light at the edges and then the deepest, darkest blue in the middle, like looking from above into the bottom of a lake. 

_ Something about his eyes. I can’t remember what, but his eyes mean something. _

“Now, you two look like you’re about to fall over.” Ausro stood, putting his hands in his pockets, gesturing towards the thin mattress in the corner. “Lie down and sleep it off. I’ll sit here at the table, you two take the bed. If you and your wings can all fit on it, that is.”

“We’ll make it work,” Azriel said, standing up and moving over to collapse onto the mattress as though it were a down-filled piece of artistry and not a thin mat probably stuffed with ancient duck feathers recycled from other more broken mattresses. Cas nodded, a trickle of unease along the back of his neck. He looked at Ausro again, thought about those blue eyes, so odd and distinctive.

Where had he seen eyes like that before?

He lay down, half on the floor, but the mattress was so thin that there wasn’t even all that much difference between the two surfaces. He didn’t care - Cas had slept on harder floors and worse, especially during the war. 

“Thank you,” He said again, already feeling his mind fog up with sleep, trying to drift away. He just wanted to sleep so badly… Azriel was already out next to him. He was surprised they could even feel this tired with the leftover adrenaline still jangling in their veins, but his mind felt like it was sinking. 

Cas tried to fight his eyes back open, and when they simply wouldn’t budge, he remembered all at once Amarantha in his dream, with strange blue eyes just like this. He grunted, trying to roll over and get back onto his feet, but he couldn’t seem to move. He was so  _ tired.  _

“Go to sleep, Cassian,” Ausro said gently, even a little lovingly. “We’ll leave town first thing in the morning.” This was not talons  or Amarantha’s red splash or even feathers. This was a hum, a kind of lullaby, that soaked into every inch of his brain and wrapped him up to sleep. His mother’s voice, singing softly to him when he was young, before he’d been separated from her for good. 

_ Sleep, little wings, don’t wake ‘til dawn, a mother’s nights are always long... _

“Y-you-... you, too?” Cas’s eyes were barely slits, his vision blurred, each blink taking a little longer to recover from than the last. Shit, Amarantha had tried to warn him, but the song was so sweet, and he had so nearly forgotten his mother’s voice, and he couldn’t wait to hear it again...

_ Fight, little wings, for when you wake, your mother’s heart you’ll surely break... _

“Me, too,” Ausro replied. “Or rather, me first.”. He poured himself the last of the water from the water pitcher and picked a book up off the floor, opening it up to a page seemingly at random. “Now sleep, Cassian. You’ve never wanted to sleep so much in your life, isn’t that true? Go to sleep, beside the one you love.”

_ Run, little wings, and win the race, see the pride in a mother’s face... _

“Right,” Cas mumbled, pulling one of the threadbare blankets over himself, curling his wings tightly. He should. He should sleep here, with Azriel, beside the one he loved.

_ Dream, little wings, of how I love you, your mother’s love is always true _

_ Fly, little wings, and find the sky, a mother's hand to wave goodbye... _

 

* * *

 

Ausro read his book for a few minutes, until both of the Illyrians were breathing deeply and evenly, their faces still white and sheened with sweat, wrapped in their wings for warmth. He tapped a fingernail on the table thoughtfully, the sweetness dropping off his face instantly once they were safely unconscious.

“What do I do now?” He asked himself out loud, then winced and looked over. No, they were still out. 

They’d wasted dozens of gold coins on bribes for nothing. For  _ nothing. _ He wanted to shred them all for failing such a simple mission, the kind of thing they’d done a hundred times before, but the blood on the shadowy one’s clothing, face, and hands suggested that perhaps his people had already been punished enough. Still. He’d seen that Volgen was still alive, and knew Erosyn was too. And he had the two of them now, sleeping deeply on the floor. He’d have to nudge them a little further down into themselves before they could make the next move. Now…

He could feel their shields, the way they’d wrapped up their minds to protect them. Erosyn had gotten lucky; they belonged to the Night Court, and he had no doubt the High Lord there would have ensured his highest ranking general and personal shadowsinger could defend against any daemati intrusion. It had only been that they hadn't expected it.   


Well,  _ he  _ had made it in. Not far, but enough to hold them for now.

Ausro clenched one hand into a fist, then slowly forced himself to relax it. A smile played across his face as an idea came to him. He moved slowly to the door, cracking it open just the barest little bit. The shadowy Illyrian shifted in his sleep, but did not quite wake. Ausro called up a wisplight. He murmured into it, “Go to the Night Court in Prythian and find our weapon there. Tell him the Illyrians will be home soon and it will be time to open the door, but he must follow my directions exactly…”

When he was finished, he sent that wisplight flying out the door, to find its way across the sea to its target. He called up a second, checking once more to make sure the Illyrians were still out. He pitched his voice even lower the second time.

“Find Eris Vanserra, Lord of Autumn.” He waited until the wisplight gently chimed, in a tone just barely above a whisper. “Eris, pretty autumn doll, it’s time. You know what you will - what you  _ must  _ \- do. Send a letter to Rhysand inviting him to your engagement celebration. Let him know that he will not be allowed to step foot in Autumn lands without the Spring Lord at his side. Bait the hook with the following piece of information…"

He sent that wisplight away, too. It’d take the wisps, moving much faster than any living thing could, a week or so to find their destinations. By then, he’d have the Illyrians well in hand and they’d be ready for the next steps. 

Ausro could not wait to stop  _ waiting _ and set himself free. But first… first, they would need to open a door. And he needed Illyrian power to do it. 

Just a few more months, perhaps - and then he could take his rightful place, live up to the legend he’d been told, and never lie to make himself seem smaller again. Ausro sat back down at the table, looking back down at his book. He smiled, slowly, looking back over at the sleeping Illyrians. They’d moved closer, in their sleep, and their arms just barely touched all the way from elbow to wrist. 

There was a knock on the door, and Ausro opened it carefully. Erosyn was on the other side, his face a mottled mess of bruises and his sky blue eyes lit with love, just the way Ausro had wanted them to look. 

Erosyn had hated him at first, but if Thesan had a Peregryn lover, then Ausro would have one, too. At least until he saw Thesan face to face again and brought him to his knees… for now, though, Erosyn’s helpless, enforced adoration would do.

His wings were bandaged on both sides and already bleeding through. Ausro fought the urge to whistle at the sight.

“They’re out,” Ausro said, pitching his voice low. “Take them. Put the circles on.”

“I want to wait," Erosyn said softly. The shadowsinger, where he slept, shifted slightly, and Ausro frowned, tightening his control, watching Azriel settle again. He was going to get a headache trying to keep them in check.

“Why?” Ausro asked, raising one eyebrow in a perfect arch. “I can’t hold them forever, and they’ve already freed themselves from  _ your  _ grip once. It was pure dumb luck they ran past my hideout escaping from you.”

“That was a mistake,” Erosyn said, and when Ausro reached up a hand to touch the side of his face, he looked down and to the side. Ausro watched him shake and smiled.  _ How much you would love to pull away from me, and you can't, because I have made you want me. Practice for the future. Will Thesan shake? _ “I know what to do. Let me do it up at the safehouse.”

“... is it going to hurt them?”

“Only emotionally.”  

“Fine. Get them out of here and up to the safehouse, I can keep them asleep that long. Tomorrow, you do what you want, whatever you’re thinking, but by the time you’re done they’re powerless, got it?”

Erosyn nodded and went into a low bow, wincing only slightly as it must have aggravated some wound under his shirt. “Of course, my lord.”

“Don’t start that up,” Ausro muttered, stepping aside to let Erosyn - followed by three of their men and Volgen at the back, who looked like he’d been run through a meat thresher - into the room. Ausro could feel the Illyrians wanting to wake up, and he forced them as far down into dreams as he could, woke up nightmares and let the darkness have them. They were shielded, but Ausro, well…

There was only one daemati he knew of stronger than him. And that was why they had to ensure the High Lord of Night was removed as a threat - and why they needed to ensure Eris Vanserra could get the Spring Lord alone to crack him open again.

“You’re the High Lord, aren’t you?” Erosyn asked, as he simply picked Cassian up like a mother carrying a child, his wings folded badly under him. “Shouldn’t I bow?”

“Not the High Lord yet,” Ausro said thoughtfully. “Soon enough. But not yet. I only want you to bow to me where we’re safe.”

“To the Court of Dusk,” Erosyn said, and ducked back out the door. “I hope you slit Thesan’s throat and I get to make my brother  _ watch. _ " He paused, and there was a fight across his face, a fight Ausro had seen him have many, many times. The core of him, the truth, fought against Ausro’s remaking, and what Ausro watched was a look of absolute disgust in himself for wanting to see his brother so hurt, furious self-loathing, finally losing out to Ausro’s control over him.

“My plans for Thesan are much more interesting than that. But I promise you Syvet  _ will _ be watching. When Thesan is  _ mine instead _ , do you think that would be enough  _ punishment  _ for you?"

Erosyn took a breath, and Ausro smiled. Erosyn had been one of the toughest he had recruited, remade to fit his image. It had taken Erosyn months to break, but when Ausro spoke like this, he could see the edges of his control, where Erosyn wanted so badly to free himself and couldn’t. He could see that there were still parts of Erosyn he had yet to totally eradicate.

"I… Syvet…” Erosyn never won these little fights, and Ausro watched the darkness take him over again. “May the dusk burn Dawn to the ground.” Ausro watched as Azriel was carried out, too, shadows ringing him like worried children pulling at a mother’s skirts. He could feel their nightmares, the wispy ends that he held in his own hands, and twisted them even darker. They’d nearly escaped, and he’d make them regret it.

Still, they really had seemed so sweet with each other, down in the ship's prison cells. Maybe they would come around. Most of them did, after all - and if they didn’t want to, he simply went into their heads and remade them until they did. 

Ausro eventually left, following the others through the streets. He was smiling, lost in the nightmares he was giving the two Illyrians, enjoying them entirely too much - especially Cassian’s. He’d thought the one with the shadows would be the one haunted, but no - no, it was Cassian giving him the most to play with.

None of them noticed Kealah trailing them through the streets, out of town, and up into the hills, as the sky began slowly to lighten towards the dawn.  **  
**


	20. Welcome to the Court of Dusk, General

Cas woke up.

He was sitting on the floor, that was the first thing he understood. He was on a wooden floor leaned up against the wall with his hands tied behind his back, legs splayed out in front of him, still wearing the loose clothing he’d had on when they’d been attacked. His head had dropped forward, hair hanging loose in his face. He pulled on his wrists a little, but whatever had tied him did not budge.

His stomach had settled, so the drug must be gone. His mother’s voice singing the lullaby, that was gone, too. 

He closed his eyes again, slowly. He’d missed his mother’s voice. He had forgotten it, but somewhere in him must have remembered, because he’d known it was her as soon as the song had started up.

He was losing her voice again, losing the memory. She was back to being an empty spot in the woods, a body he’d never found to bury.

He’d been dreaming in circles. Always the prison again, the guards shoving him up against the wall to crush his wings uncomfortably behind him and stare into the angry eyes (and bloody broken nose) of that woman from the Hybernian court and her  _ brother _ . He’d dreamed in patterns, the look of cold cruelty in their eyes, the curiosity, like children who must see what happens when you pull the wings off a butterfly. 

Were Hybernians born cruel, or was it cut and kicked and beaten into them, like the Vanserra brothers, but on a nationwide scale? The Cauldron knew Eris was a semi-legendary sadist, and Azriel had said even Lucien had a deep well of cruelty that ran through him, held back only by the simple truth that he’d escaped before all the goodness in him was gone.

There were others, too, in his dreams. Their faces all ran together, their bodies, their clothing, their laughter. He could remember their shoes, mostly. They’d done a lot of kicking him, and after a while he’d been able to tell which one it was just from the feeling of the soles of their shoes.

They blended into and out of each other, and he didn’t know what memory he was reliving, but it never seemed to end. 

Each time, the guards would give the final order and he’d collapse onto the ground, hearing the rattle of the chain, and fall asleep on his thin mat, telling himself it was just a dream, listening to the screaming of whatever poor bastard they were torturing at the end of the hall, wishing it was him.

Then he’d wake up and everything would start all over again.

He didn’t know how long he’d been dreaming, how many circles he’d gone through. Once the visitor had been Rhys, come to spit on him for his weakness.

_ “A true Illyrian would have found a way to die,” Rhys had said to him, his voice a growl of condemnation, and Cas had known that one was a dream immediately. Rhys would never say anything like that; if he did, he’d be talking about himself, too. Rhys would never condemn him for doing what he had to do to survive. _

He’d rejected that dream and nearly woken up, heard low angry voices, and felt his mother’s voice force him back under again. Rhys did not appear in his dreams again, only the guards and the courtiers. Amarantha once or twice, but that ran thin, too. She’d never visited him in the prisons. She’d always made him go to her, dragged up the endless hallways Under the Mountain to her rooms to sit at her feet.

_ Indignity,  _ She’d said to him once, holding his chin in her hand.  _ Indignity is how I will break you. _

The joke had been on her; it had been the promise of Azriel’s love that finally broke him, not pain, or indignity, or humiliation. Just the promise that if he gave himself over, Az would be his forever, and he could keep him safe from her. If only he’d known, then, that all he’d ever had to do was  _ tell  _ Az, and they could have saved so much time.

Finally, though, he woke up somewhere other than the prison cell, and knew he was awake for real. 

This was different - wood and not stone, no distant screaming, no pain, no one here. No one here. Just Cas and a wooden floor and-

“Ah, you’re waking up, good. I was getting tired of waiting.”

Someone  _ was _ here.

“Az?” He groaned, shifting around. His limbs felt like they were weighted down, his wings were half-spread on either side of him, limp against the wall and the ground. 

“Sssshhhh, don’t be scared,” A familiar voice said. Cas felt his heart lurch, but he didn’t even have the energy to jump with the surprise.

He squinted, not quite a glare. “You.”

“Me. My name is Erosyn, by the way.” There was humor in the voice, the sense of a near-laugh. The Peregryn, sitting on a stool in front of him, was heavily bandaged, and Cas felt some small satisfaction seeing the black eye already blooming, the face full of bruises, and the bandages wrapped around his wings on each side where Azriel had stabbed the knives right through to hold him down.

“Where…?” 

“Where are you? Where is your friend? Where is  _ my  _ friend, who picked you up like stray dogs?” Erosyn smiled, opening his hands out to the sides. “Where are  _ any of us _ , Cassian? Where are we, really, in our hearts and in our minds? I’ll tell you where I am. I’m wrapped up in so many layers of submission I can barely breathe.” He leaned forward again, elbows resting on his thighs, tilting his head like a bird, watching Cas where he sat. “But that’s the thing, you see, I have a good  _ attitude  _ about it. Some of us have a bad attitude. Some of us serve a higher purpose. Which would you like to be?”

Cas blinked at him. His power roiled behind his heart, ready to light the whole world aflame if he’d let it. “Definitely the bad attitude,” He said, his voice a hoarse growl. 

“That’s too bad,” Erosyn said with horrifying sincerity. “That’s just too bad. All we’re trying to do is get you home, you know? And here you are rejecting _ all  _ our attempts to help you.”

“Get me… home?” Cas’s head still hurt, but it at least was less. He could  _ think.  _ He shifted again, trying to get into a more comfortable position.  _ Think,  _ he thought to himself desperately.  _ Think, damn it. Categorize. You’re a fucking general. _

“Are you just going to repeat everything I say? That’s annoying.”

“Go to hell.”

Erosyn laughed, a bright and cheerful sound, winsome and charming. Cas considered trying to see if he could kick him from here just to make it stop.

The room was small, a good-sized living space by mortal standards but tiny for the fae. The place looked half-abandoned, cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling and hanging in strands down the walls. He could hear a fireplace crackling, but couldn’t see one, so they must be in an offshoot room by itself. There were faelights along the wall but no true light, no windows. There was a table with two chairs in the corner, and Erosyn on the stool in front of him, and that was all. No one else was in the room. Azriel must be somewhere else.

His chest constricted with anxiety, but Cas forced himself to calm down. Az could handle himself, arguably better than Cas could. Azriel had his shadows, at least, where Cas had… an awful lot of nothing, actually, at the moment. Hands tied behind his back and a well of fury he could not use.

_ Use your brain, you still have that, right?  _ That’s what Az would say, teasing him, in that voice that Cas loved so much, when he didn’t sound like he was trying to force an emotion he didn’t really feel. 

_ Use what you know.  _ So what did he know? 

Erosyn was military, he could tell that, or had been. The Peregryns all were, really, but Erosyn had the right build, the right muscles for it. The Peregryns were considered the most trustworthy fae in Prythian; they followed Thesan to a man, did not waver in their loyalty, could not be bribed or tricked to turn on their High Lord.

So why was this one here? There had never been a Peregryn put in exile before, not once. 

“Y-your wing,” Cas said, groaning as his tongue seemed too large for his mouth, dry like someone had stuffed it with cotton.

“Oh, you must be thirsty. That’s a side effect. Let me help you.” Erosyn stood, walking away, and Cas watched his bad wing dragging the ground. Erosyn didn’t even try to lift it, and Cas wondered if he even  _ could. _

He came back with a cup of water, and lifted it to Cas’s lips. Now was not the time to stand on dignity; Cas drank without hesitation, letting the cool, clear water clear away the taste of copper in his mouth. He must have bitten himself during one of his dreams. “Thank you,” Cas ground out when the cup was empty. 

“Did you just thank me?” Erosyn asked, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Cas looked down at the ground, but he could still feel eyes on him and shifted uncomfortably. “You thank your fucking guards,” He muttered. “It’s the first thing they teach you.”

“Ah. Right. I remember that.” Erosyn’s voice was not smug. It did not hold judgement, only a genuine compassion and understanding. “I learned that, too. I wonder which cell you were in - probably not far from where mine had been, when I was there. Amarantha had so many, and only a few could hold fae like us.” Cas could see his shadow shifting along the ground as the Peregryn leaned over. His stomach dropped and he went stiff, waiting for the inevitable. Waiting for Erosyn to touch his hair, the top of his head, like  _ her. _

Instead, Erosyn simply sat back up, looking down at him. “I’m sorry. I know I told you that I don’t molest my captives, but you don’t have any reason to believe me after the way I behaved with you before. I’ll stay back for now, but… I make no promises, if he takes over again. You were asking about my wing?”

Cas couldn’t keep up with this wild swing from rage to wicked amusement to kindness to compassion. His head spun with it, trying to figure out which version of the Peregryn was the real one. “Is that how they got you to serve their higher purpose? By cutting your wing?”

Erosyn glanced back over his shoulder at it, as though he’d forgotten it was there at all. “Oh. That. Well… no. That happened in Amarantha’s prisons before they brought me into his Court. You’re lucky, actually, that they didn’t cut yours. She must have really liked you. But I did give them some trouble, early on, and they did cut it a little worse to remind me.” He spoke it all mildly, as though it had been an inconvenience and not the removal of half a winged fae’s reason for living.

“Did you… do you miss it?”

“I used to.” Erosyn’s eyes were dark and thoughtful. “Before my lord took the ability to miss it out of my head. I believe he thought he was being kind.”

“Will they do that to me?” Cas asked the question casually enough, but his heart pounded in his chest. Illyrians without wings were half-men, hardly living at all. He’d been told that his whole life. He’d been told to guard his wings as his most precious resource, more important than his lungs. Rhys had only barely been able to save Azriel’s wing the once - and Rhys wasn’t here to save them now. “Take our wings and then make it so we don't care? Will they do that to Az?"

“Az?” Erosyn crooked an eyebrow, then understanding dawned. “Oh, your friend. Azriel. No, but we don’t need to do that, do we? His wing’s  _ already  _ damaged.” Erosyn leaned slowly over, meeting Cas’s eyes. His sparkled a light and brilliant sky blue. “I heard he can still fly, though, and good for him. Is his wing damaged because of  _ you _ , Cassian? Is it all _ your  _ fault?”

Cas looked away, but even that gave away the answer. He didn’t have to say a thing.

Erosyn smiled, slowly. “I see. I thought that might be the case. He’s very forgiving, isn’t he?”

“No.” Cas snorted. “Az can hold a grudge for centuries if he hates you.”

“But he doesn’t hate _ you. _ ”

He couldn’t help himself; Cas smiled and looked back up at Erosyn, something in him gentling. “No,” He said, softly. “He doesn’t hate me.”

“Should he?”

“Probably, for what I did to him. But he doesn’t.”

“ _ Did _ you do something to him?” Erosyn cocked his head like a bird, a bit of hair falling into his eyes. “Or did Amarantha, wearing you like a glove?”

"I…” Cas’s voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat. “Yes. That.” But also, up on that ledge, every moment they had been together Cas had been there, every brush of Azriel’s wings that got him to submit. Amarantha had been the catalyst, but he had wanted Azriel so bad he would have taken him up on the ledge anyway, even without her voice in his mind urging him on.

“Makes sense. Don’t blame yourself for that, Cassian.” The compassion was back, and when Cas looked up at him he realized the Peregryn’s eyes weren’t quite that bright and brilliant blue, but a stormy gray color that seemed to flicker in and out. There was a flash of color and Cas looked down to see a silver ring with a blue stone on Erosyn’s left index finger, the blue stone faintly glowing. “When she does that to you, you’re not in control. When she got ahold of me… I hurt some of my legion, early on, too. I think I killed a few, but it’s… scattered. Some of it’s been removed. I don’t know who took that. I don’t know when it left.” The Peregryn spoke casually, as though they discussed the weather. 

He pulled something Cas couldn’t quite see out of his pocket and fiddled with it. Metal of some kind, it glinted in the dim faelights. A flash of silver and red. Cas felt his heart constrict again. “We could make him hate you, you know. Go into his head and rebuild it. Convince him that you are his worst enemy and he must kill you himself.”

Cas lifted his head, licking his lips, trying to figure out what angle to take here. He’d never been as good with words as Rhys was, never been as fast on his feet when talking was involved. He didn’t know how to just look at a person and find out their weaknesses like Az. There was a game here, the Peregryn was playing with him or was just another piece on the board, and he needed to figure out the next right step to take.

_ List what you know,  _ Azriel’s advice rang in his mind.  _ What you know already is always the best place to start. _

_ What I know is that he’s been in Amarantha’s prisons, Amarantha cut his wing, the people he’s working for cut it worse. He doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t seem unhappy, but he keeps mentioning having fought and being punished for it. He’s wearing a ring that glows. His eyes keep changing color. Sometimes he seems just like Amarantha or maybe worse, sometimes he seems like... someone else, someone better So. What does all of that  _ tell  _me?_

“You could, probably,” He said finally, though he didn’t really believe it. Az was stronger than that. They all were; Rhys had taught them the trick to strong shields ages ago, when they were still in the camps and Rhys was learning, too. “It wouldn’t get you what you want. I’d just let him kill me.”

“Now that _ is  _ a surprise.”

“Is it? Don’t you have anyone you couldn’t fight, even if you had to? Even if you’d die?”

Erosyn’s expression changed, minutely, but Cas had been paying attention enough to catch it. A look like regret, and fear. His grip on whatever he was holding tightened, just for a moment. “Yes.”

“So you have someone you love, too-”

“I don’t love him,” Erosyn said quietly, but firmly. His eyes were locked on Cas’s. “I  _ hate him _ . I told you back in the inn, Cas, I have always wanted women alone. But that has never mattered to him, and what does not suit his wants, he changes until it does. He knows it. He wants me to enjoy the captures, so I do. He wants me to enjoy taking people from that room in the inn and bringing them to him, so I do. He wants me to enjoy… him, so I do."

There was a pause, as though the Peregryn expected him to say something, but Cas stayed silent. He was thinking of Rhys with Amarantha, the stories that they'd heard from those who'd been Under the Mountain and spoke of Rhysand's smug, smirking smile, the way he stood at her side (and later, the way he leaned over Tamlin's throne and whispered in his ear). 

Cas had known someone who had been forced to feel pleasure he didn't want. He could understand that.

"It’s fun, in the moment, when I can feel him in my mind. It’s fun until I’m alone for more than a week and he’s not there to reinforce it. That’s why he was on the ship. He needed to be close to me or I… think for myself. I might not have gone through with it."

“Ausro? It’s Ausro who did that to you?” It was just a guess, a shot in the dark, Cas threw out only because he could remember the feeling of Ausro’s daemati power settling into his mind, his mother’s voice singing him gently, irresistibly to sleep. There was no fighting that; that power had been as strong as Rhys’s, and he’d never seen anyone able to resist Rhys when he wanted in their heads.

Erosyn flinched at his name. He caught himself, rubbing the back of his neck and smirking, but Cas had seen the flinch first, and settled himself back against the wall to try and think. Azriel would tell him to  _ put the pieces together.  _ Azriel knew how to take the bits that he picked up on, seemingly unrelated, and make a picture out of them. It always seemed so obvious when Az outlined it later, but in the moment, Cas was always lost.

He was made for fighting, not this. 

“What  _ is  _ he?”

_ He was locked down in the cells with us, but was he ever really locked in? Could he have escaped whenever he wanted? Cauldron, was his cell even  _ locked? _ He’s as strong a daemati as Rhys. Erosyn’s under his control, too. So then the one with the ruined face is… how many fae does Ausro control? What am I missing? What’s the goal? _

“That doesn’t matter. You’ll see soon enough. I think you should help us, Cassian, no matter your personal feelings on how we… became acquainted.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re going home to Prythian, and you want to go there, too. It may not seem like it, but I  _ like  _ you, and I’d like you to keep your mind as intact as possible for the process.”

Erosyn stood again, and this time Cas could see what he’d been holding in his hands. His heart went cold and he shoved his feet under him, struggling to stand, wishing he could simply melt away into the wall away from  _ that thing _ . 

“Don’t you?” Erosyn asked softly. “Don’t you want to go home? To your High Lord and your friends and your life? Is this such a high price to pay?” Erosyn’s talons brushed against his mind and Cas felt himself recoil instinctively from a touch that was internal, a touch he couldn’t quite escape.

“I don’t have a life there any longer,” Cas spat, his wings curling around him defensively. “They took it away from me. I’m in exile, remember? I’m a criminal. I can’t go back-”

“Oh, hush,” Erosyn snapped, his earlier gentleness gone in an instant. "My lord can fix that. He can fix you." He did not move, not yet. In his hands he held a thin silver bracelet, just wide enough for the ring of faintly glowing garnets that encircled it. “You’ll let me into your head, Cassian.”

“No.” He curled his wings tighter, tried to concentrate on his shields, the way Rhys had taught him.  _ I could really use you here right now, Rhys, I could really use your help. _

“You will, because if you do, we’ll let you and Az stay together. If you don’t, we’ll keep you apart, and I’ll tell my lord you were… defiant.”

“That’s not much, in exchange for what you want.”

“It could take months to finish what we’ve started,” Erosyn said softly, cocking his head to the side again. “Do you want to go months without seeing him? Would you like my lord to go into your mind and rearrange it until you can only speak in sonnets or you forget how to speak at all? You were down in the prisons for months, right? You’ve only just gotten to even touch him, isn’t that true? Do you want to be alone in the dark again? Alone in the prisons in your head?”

“Amarantha already tried to use him against me,” Cas said, teeth ground together.

“It worked, didn’t it?” Erosyn smiled, slowly. “That’s fine, Cassian. Don’t worry. We can do this the harder way, too. I don’t mind. I told my lord that I wouldn’t hurt your body. Trust me, not all of your mind needs to be there for this to work for us.”

“What, you’ll drug me again?” He tried to inch along the wall, though he had no idea where he’d go. 

“Oh, that was the easy way.” Erosyn snorted. “You’re a good five hours from Insurgent and no one cares about you here. Where will you go, if you escape? Will you escape without him? Will you fly away, knowing he cannot follow you, knowing that we can and  _ will _ hurt him?"

Cas paused, looking slowly back at him. “No. You know I won’t leave him.”

“Then open up your wings and let me into your head. Or I’ll break in, and you won’t be any good to him anyway.”

Cas closed his eyes, spreading his wings out slowly. Erosyn stepped up and gripped him by the throat, pushing his back into the wall, and Cas grunted in pain as it pressed his hands between his own weight and the wall, his head forced back and throat bared to Erosyn. “Will you untie my hands? That hurts like hell.”

“Not yet.” Erosyn’s hand tightened, and Cas gasped. His eyes were back to blue, and Erosyn slowly smiled.

“I thought I wasn’t your type,” He ground out.

“You aren’t. You’re  _ his.  _ He likes the winged fae, and there's as much of him in my head as there is me. I told you I’m not in the habit of molesting my captives, but this  _ bothers you,  _ doesn’t it? And I’ve been made to enjoy that, to enjoy watching someone learn to hate me. I was so good, once, did you know?" He shook his head, leaning in closer. His voice dropped to something just above a whisper. "I was such a good fucking person. Does it remind you of Amarantha’s prisons?” 

Cassian swallowed, hard. "Yes."

Erosyn laughed, a little darkly, something other than humor in the sound. Cas let his eyes open, slowly, staring into Erosyn’s. They flickered in and out of the gray. “I know prisons.” Erosyn’s words were bitter. “We know all about prisons, you and I. We know all about settling in to live through hell.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

Erosyn smiled gently, lovingly. “Yes, I do, Cassian. Now let me in.” Feathers brushed against his mind, and Cas let out a helpless grunt as he felt his limbs go slowly slack. 

Fucking _ daemati. _

He was only standing because Erosyn held him there by his neck. Something in his vision went slowly white around the edges and Cas felt those feathers wrap him up. It was like and unlike Amarantha’s control, subtle where hers had been a brick and soft as a thought where hers had been blood in his brain. 

“Don’t be scared of it,” Erosyn said softly. “I am doing this to punish you for fighting me. But you won’t fight me again, now, will you? No, no, no, you won’t fight me again.” His voice was soft and lilting, sing-song. “I’m going to be your best friend, here, Cas, even though you hate me. If it helps, I  _ deeply  _ hate myself."

He reached with the hand holding the thin bracelet, slowly, behind Cas’s back and carefully undid the ties that bound his wrists. When the ties dropped to the ground, Cas’s hands did not move, still pressed painfully against the wall. He stared into Erosyn’s eyes and for a second he saw Ausro’s deeper, darker blue fully take over.

Erosyn held up the silver bracelet and let go of his neck. “Take this from me.”

Cas, still staring blankly into his eyes, slowly reached out and took it. It clicked open easily on a hinge he couldn’t see. It was cold to the touch, the way the silver cuffs Under the Mountain had been, and looked so much like it. His heart pounded in his chest but he couldn’t even control his face.

“This won’t hurt you, I promise,” Erosyn said, quietly. The compassion was back. Cas felt like he was on a pendulum, and he couldn’t know if he would simply swing out into the air or be thrown into a wall. “Not physically. But you’ll be in a prison, won’t you, with this on? Oh, Cassian, don’t be scared of showing me how you really feel. After all, we’ve both been prisoners, haven’t we? Don’t worry. This is just to make sure you’ll never, ever fight me again, and you’ll act on my orders. Ausro wants you to answer to me, because he knows how much you hate me. He’s made me enjoy being hated.” He laughed. “He’s got a wicked sense of humor, that one. That’s why he’s the High Lord, I guess.”

_ He’s the what?  _ Cas couldn’t find the words. He couldn’t make them come out. All he could do was slowly slide the bracelet over his left wrist, closing it. When it clicked shut, he felt something in him crumble to dust.

His heart beat so loudly he worried it might break right through his chest. 

“Oh, you’re so  _ scared _ ,” Erosyn breathed right against his ear, running fingertips over the soft membranes of Cas's wings, making him shudder at a spike of pleasure and nervousness that went straight down his spine.

"Please don't," he said, but he couldn't even raise a hand to defend himself.

"But it  _ bothers you, _ " Erosyn murmured, and his voice was not quite his own. Cas could hear the Dawn Court fae's voice echoing, twisting around and through it, the way he had heard Amarantha's words twisting through his own when she had been in control of him. "Do you save your wings for your Azriel?" He ran a finger across the bones along the top.

Ca groaned, unwillingly, feeling heat rush to his face and pool somewhere in the core of him. "Don't do this."

"But you're _miserable_ about it," Erosyn breathed out. He grabbed Cassian by the chin, pushing his head back until it knocked into the wall, forcing him to meet his eyes. The deep, dark blue with the lighter outer ring. Cas could have sworn the blue  _moved,_ and he couldn't look away. 

"Please  _ stop- _ "

Erosyn froze, and the blue flickered.

"Please," Cas said, a little more softly. " _Please._ "

The Peregryn jerked backwards, and Cas fell to his hands and knees in a heap. He looked up from behind his hair to see Erosyn staring down at his own hands. "Damn it, no, I don't  _ want _ to do that." 

The garnets set in the silver bracelet began to glow - and so did the blue stones in the ring on Erosyn's finger.

His power did not disappear. He could still feel it, suddenly calmer, less riotous, trying less to be free. He did not feel emptied, or exhausted. But when he tried to rebuild his shields, nothing happened. He was open to any daemati’s control. He looked slowly up at Erosyn through the hair that had fallen over his face, and when he thought about attacking him, he knew, with a deep instinct in his bones, that he couldn't. The power behind his heart was trapped there, waiting to be commanded... by  _Erosyn._

“Sorry to let you drop,” Erosyn said thickly, and hit himself in the forehead in a way Cas remembered from back in the library in Velaris, when he was trying to knock Amarantha’s control out of him as Mor begged him to remember himself. “But my lord likes it when I enjoy others being hurt, so… I do. I don’t want to, but… but I do.”

“You don’t have to,” Cas said, and some of the hatred he’d been building towards Erosyn fell away. He was seeing a reflection of himself, struggling to get free of her, failing. Cas had broken out because of Azriel, because Mor had seen the truth of his love for him and wielded it to cut him free, but Erosyn had nothing he could use.

“I  _ do. _ I didn’t used to. I'm sorry. I didn't used to be this way, I used to be so  _ good _ . I was remade, but… it doesn’t always… take."

“You’re a  _ daemati, _ ” Cas said, trying to reason his way through this. Azriel would have known what he was looking at more quickly, but Cas had never been good at puzzles. “ _ You  _ remake people.”

“Let me tell you a secret,” Erosyn said, straightening his clothing. “Daemati can be remade, too.” He dropped back into a crouch in front of Cas. “I would have done anything to get out of Amarantha’s prisons. I would have sold any part of myself, to make what she had them do to me stop. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Cas said softly. “I do.”

“When he came to me, I thought I’d gotten lucky, because all he wanted was my mind.”

“What?” 

“I used to be someone else. I used to be one of Thesan’s best, in line to head up my own unit _. _ ” He reached over, gripping Cas by the hair, yanking his head back to look him in the eyes. “Then Syvet sent me to die to keep Amarantha’s hands off the Cauldron - couldn't even tell  _our High Lord,_ he was the one trying to steal it in the first place - and I did not die well enough, did I? That’s all right, though. That’s all right. I’ll see my brother again . It was   _ Ausro _ who got me out of there, and now I have a  _ place.  _ I serve a higher  _ purpose. _ Ausro has made sure I want to serve his higher purpose. Now, I promised you you’d see your lover, didn’t I?”

He stood, and when he gestured carelessly with one hand, Cas carefully got to his feet, too. He was in over his head. This wasn’t a battle he knew how to fight. This wasn’t war, or not the kind he’d ever known. 

“We’ll take the mark off your arm,” Erosyn said, walking ahead of him, Cas falling into step behind, staring down at the bracelet. The feathers were a constant brush against his thoughts; not exactly controlling him, not yet, but a threat that it could happen at any time and he could no longer defend himself. “They won’t know you’ve gone missing, trust me. We haven’t left Lawless yet. When we do…”   


Erosyn fiddled with the ring on his finger.  “That’s when the fireworks begin, Cassian. But first…” They went down a short hall and into another room, and Cas paused in the doorway.

Azriel was still asleep, lying on the ground on a thin mat on his side with wings curled against his back, and Cas couldn’t remember which things were real and which weren’t for a second - he saw stone floor and wood, bars and an open doorway, silver chains and no chains at all.

Ausro was sitting next to him, legs crossed, one hand laid flat on his knee and the other holding something. He looked up at Cas, and the sense of his mother singing was a soft and gentle presence in the back of his mind. The deep blue upswept eyes looked him over, thoughtfully.

“It’s done,” Erosyn said. “He’s open.”

“Good job,” Ausro said. This wasn’t the quiet, but friendly Dawn Court fae they’d spoken to on the beach or in that room. This was a coldness and hostility that went on without end, and there was no sense at all of compassion in him. “Good job, Eros. I’ve kept this one asleep well enough.” His eyes slid over to Cas, and the song was suddenly much louder.

_ There once was a boy who picked apples _

_ And flew to the tops of the trees _

_ The sun wanted the boy for her own _

_ But it was the sky who held his wings and said _

_ I will name you Illyrian, boy _

_ I will give you eyes to see _

_ One day you’ll make a great warrior _

_ To stand by my side with me _

“Funny,” Ausro said without smiling. “You miss your mother. How many centuries has it been since you left her to die?” Cas head jerked up, but Ausro did not react. “I don’t blame you. Mothers are troublesome things." He held out his hand. On it was a silver bracelet, identical to Cas’s own, right down to the red stones. “Put this on your friend.”

“No,” Cas said, but the song was louder, and his hand was already reaching out to take it. “No. I don’t want to.”

“That doesn’t matter here,” Erosyn said softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. Cas’s skin crawled at his touch. “If you don’t want, you are remade until you do.”

“Erosyn understands.” Ausro looked at the Peregryn with a sort of patronizing affection, and Erosyn looked back with the same dumb adoration he’d shown before, adoration mixed with fear and hate.

“Don’t make me put that on him,” Cas said in a desperate whisper, but he was already opening the bracelet. Azriel slept soundlessly on his side on the floor, one arm flung out, wrist up. 

_ The sun may love you, Illyrian _

_ But the wind gave you the power of flight _

_ The moon may sing to you, Illyrian _

_ But the wind is in your wings tonight, oh _

_ I will name you Illyrian _

_ I will give you hands to fight _

_ One day you’ll make a great warrior _

_ And you are beautiful in my sight _

Erosyn kept one hand on his arm, sliding his hand down the length of it until it closed around Cas’s hand. The old, ropelike scars on Erosyn wound halfway up, bumps like Azriel’s hands, wrapped around where he’d tried to tear chains off of himself. Cas’s own small scars were nothing in comparison. 

“Here we go,” He said gently. “One step at a time, Cas. You don’t have to be totally remade, if you let this happen.”

He fell to his knees next to Azriel, Erosyn crouching gracefully next to him, guiding his hand with the bracelet. Dread beat in his veins, but he could not stop himself.

Ausro sat still, unmoving, watching them with his cold blue eyes.

“Shit, Az,” Cas whispered to his sleeping best friend, the love of his life, the one person he would have torn himself apart for without hesitation. “I’m so sorry.”

He closed the bracelet around Az’s wrist. The red stones flared and then glowed, faintly, steadily. 

Cas watched as Azriel’s shadows abandoned him, scattering to the corners of the room or disappearing entirely. Without his constant companions, Az seemed… smaller, somehow, more defenseless. 

Azriel’s sleeping face had been peaceful, but now a furrow began between his eyebrows, one Cas desperately wanted to smooth with his fingers, trace the skin, remind himself of the days back in the inn when they had been stupid enough to think they would be safe there, of the apartment over the artist’s studio in Velaris.

“You should have been less hostile,” Ausro said in a calm, empty voice. “We would not have had to do it this way. Now.” He tilted his head, getting slowly to his feet. He held out his hands, palms facing out. “Stand up.”

Cas stood back up, Erosyn at his side, just behind him, the soft sound of his wing scraping the floor while Cas’s were held effortlessly high. He looked into Ausro’s deep blue eyes and saw an eternal, enduring hatred staring back.

Ausro smiled, very slowly.

“Kneel,” He said softly.

Cas fell to his knees, bonelessly, and Erosyn knelt gracefully just behind him.

“Forehead on the floor.”

Cas bent himself in half at the waist, pressing his forehead into the cool wooden floor, and felt Erosyn’s hand on the back of his neck, holding him there. His mother’s voice rang through his mind.

Azriel slept on, in his unnaturally deep sleep, just too far for Cas to reach out and touch, but he could nearly smell him, cedar and night, the beautiful Illyrian that had decided to love him, too. 

“Welcome to the Court of Dusk, General Cassian,” Ausro said, and put his boot on the top of Cas’s head, pushing down so hard it jammed Cas’s forehead into the floor, until he grunted with pain. 

“You’re one of us until your task is done. Would you like to know what your task is going to be?”

“No,” Cas grunted. Ausro kicked him in the head and Cas saw stars as he fell to his side, crashing into the floor. “Shit, fuck- that hurts-”

“Good. It _should_ hurt. Never deny me anything. Let’s try this again. Would you like to know what your task is going to be?”

Cas hesitated.  _ Use what you know,  _ he could hear Azriel say through the haze of pain in his mind. Think it through. Try to get a step ahead, that’s what Az would do. He needed to be able to tell him something when he woke up. “Yes,” He said finally, simply. “I want to know who you are.”

“‘Yes, my  _ lord,’ _ ” Erosyn whispered behind him, urgently, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Yes, my lord,” Cas ground out.

Ausro smirked. “Better. I’ll tell you a story, Cassian. Once upon a time, there were eight courts - Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter, plus Dawn, Day, Night… and Dusk. Hewn City belonged to us, once upon a time. The Night Court was not always so immense.”

“You’re going to hurt Rhys?” Cas’s heart pounded, not with fear but with anger.  _ Not Rhys _ , he thought,  _ not again, he’s only just gotten free of her, don’t do this to him again… _

“Rhysand is largely innocent, in this if in  _ no other way,  _ and I’ll settle for keeping him out of my way.”

Cas let out a soft sigh of relief, and Ausro raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not saying I  _ won't _ hurt him. No, Rhysand will  _ meddle  _ unless he can't, so trust that we'll make sure he's… preoccupied."

Cas tried to think, to memorize everything he said to tell Az when he woke up. “So then you want your land back?” 

“Don't miss the point, general. The important part of the story is not where Dusk once  _ was _ , but that we were destroyed by Dawn. We had a power they wanted, you see, and it was Thesan’s family who took it from us. I intend to do some destroying of my own and do away with Dawn the same way they did away with Dusk.” Ausro crouched down in front of Cas where he still knelt with his forehead to the floor, looking at him thoughtfully. “Do you care about Thesan very much, Cassian? The Dawn Lord?”

“No,” Cas answered honestly enough. “I’ve barely spoken to him.”

“Then you won’t mind helping me.”

“I…” He felt Erosyn’s hand on the back of his neck tighten, and understood it was warning him how best to respond, not threatening him. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

He could hear the smile on Ausro’s voice when he spoke again. “Precisely. You don’t have a choice. I  _ am  _ sorry to interrupt your idyllic Illyrian fucking holiday, of course - you’re  _ gorgeous  _ when you go at each other, did you know that?”

Cas felt his face redden furiously and clenched his eyes shut. “How the  _ fuck  _ do you-”

“It’s an inn in a lawless city,” Ausro said mildly. “I paid the bartender and watched. Really, Cassian, I assumed you  _ knew. _ If not, you two really do just put on a show for each other, hm?”

“ _ Why  _ would I-”

“Ssshhhhh. Listen. In order to help Thesan  _ abdicate  _ in my favor, I needed to get ahold of lesser fae with a certain level of power that is very,  _ very  _ rare… and here you are, the two most powerful Illyrians in a thousand years, basically falling into my lap. So you’ll have to spend some time with us for a while. Don’t worry, we’ll keep you safe.”

“Great,” Cas muttered into the floor. “Thanks.”

“I’ll reward you, once I have the Court of Dawn. I’ll reward all my tools. And once I am on the throne, well… I don’t think anyone will try to stop me. Thesan is very… self-contained, isn’t he?” Ausro stood back up. “I doubt anyone but his precious  _ lover  _ gives a damn about him at all. I’m as powerful as your Rhysand is, and I intend to be the one they all fear to stand against. What do you think he'll do, when I have broken his mate's mind?”

"He'll tear you the fuck apart," Cas said in a voice that wasn't quite a growl. 

Erosyn made a noise in his throat, and Cas wondered if it was in anger or amusement - he genuinely couldn’t tell. 

"Do you think so?"

"You've never seen Rhys stand up for something he loves." He slowly raised his head, looking up at the would-be High Lord whose control constantly brushed against the edges of his mind, threatening to worm its way in. "He ripped Amarantha's heart out because he thought Tamlin was dead, and you're hardly half of what she was-"

He was kicked again, and this time he braced for it and fell to his side with only a soft exhalation to show it had hurt.

Ausro, his expression still calm and cold, glanced behind Cas to Erosyn, who slowly stood. “Lock them in here. We’ll move them later on. It’ll be time to go soon. This one will wake in fifteen minutes or so.” Erosyn bowed his head, and when Ausro left, Erosyn followed him like a puppy at its master’s heels, closing the door behind him as he went. Cas heard the lock click, felt the flare of magic that would keep them from breaking out.

Cas waited until they were gone to get back up, waited for the song to fade out of his head. Then he moved over to Azriel, settling onto his side in front of him, lying with his head resting on one arm and his wings curled tightly against his back. Az was still asleep, but something in him already looked lighter, and he was shifting around.

Cas laid there, watching Azriel’s face in silence, listening to him breathe. What would he do without his shadows? Cas had never known a version of Azriel without them. Even when Amarantha had been in their heads the shadows were  _ near him _ even though they didn't really touch him. At least he would be there when Az woke up.

There was his trade - they could take him over any time they wanted, he couldn’t lift a hand to fight them, but in return he had… this.

“I love you,” He said, leaning over to push a bit of his short, curly black hair out of his face. “I love you, Azriel.” Azriel shifted around, reached out and grabbed his other hand, smiled in his sleep and murmured something.

“Indignity doesn’t break me,” Cas said softly. “Only you do. And if it’s you, I’ll always choose to be broken.”

Amarantha had tried indignity, and had to use Azriel’s love instead - and his love for Az had been the thing Mor used to set him free.

Somewhere across the sea, his brother and Thesan were the targets of a mad fae's need for revenge for something that had happened millenia ago, and Cas had no idea how he could possibly warn Rhys in time.

_ Damn it, Rhys, how do we tell you what's coming? _

Somewhere above him, he could hear a bird sing, faintly. It sang again, the same three notes trilled in rhythm. The  _third_ time, Cas frowned, put his lips together, and whistled back.

Then he heard three short raps on the roof above his head.


	21. A Message From the Autumn Court

Everything was back to normal, but of course nothing was _normal_ at all.

Rhysand sat in the black throne in Hewn City, presiding over the Court of Nightmares with the mask of lazy amusement plastered onto his face, violet eyes watching without seeing as he leaned heavily on one arm, resting the side of his face on his fingers. 

It had been nearly a month since the disastrous High Lord’s meeting, and he felt like an animal kept in a pen, restlessly pacing the edges of his own lands, waiting for some great weight to drop on him from above.

He had some information from Tarquin, at least, who had given him a message from one of the guards at Lawless verifying that Cassian and Azriel had indeed checked in with the authorities - so he knew they were where they were meant to be, at least. They’d survived the shipwreck, the message said, and flown to shore with the help of another survivor. 

For a couple of weeks, it had been enough to hold onto. 

Then the second message had come, and that one had been… harder.

_“I’m sorry,” Tarquin had said with true concern in his brightly glowing eyes.  “We’ve had word that they have been abducted. I can’t play you the wisplight, unfortunately, it would give away the identity of someone very close to me. I have put my faith in this person, and they in me, too many times for me to give up even that small weakness.”_

_“I understand,” Rhys said, but his heart had dropped. “Abducted? For what purpose? By who?” Rhysand felt his hand tighten around the glass of brandy he’d been drinking. He’d chosen to meet with Tarquin in his private residence and Tamlin had been standing just behind him, a hand on his shoulder._

_That hand - the simple press of his mate’s palm, the curve of his fingers - was the only thing that kept the darkness in Rhys from finding its way out._

_There were slavers on the continent, everyone knew that. There were fae kingdoms that had never rid themselves of slavery, and more than one had turned the practice on other fae as well as the mortals. No one had ever_ proven _slavers had made it into Lawless, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t._

_After all, if you were sold into slavery, how could you get word back home that it had ever happened at all? If Cas and Az had been sold into slavery, he might never know where they had gone. He might never be able to find them._

_He might have to burn the whole continent to the ground to find them._

_The air around Rhys grew colder._

_“Calm, love,” Tamlin murmured behind him, hand tightening just a little on his shoulder. “Please.”_

_It wasn’t enough._

_If it_ was _slavers, he’d leave Amren in charge and go hunt his brothers down himself. There were those you could ask, in the woods of the Night Court, when you needed someone found. The price was high but he would pay it, whatever it was. He could ask the Bone Carver. He could sell years of his life to the Oracle. He could find the selkies that hid in the rocks along the northern coast. He would ask them all until someone could tell him where to begin._

_Then he would hunt whoever had taken his brothers down and tear their minds to shreds._

Rhys, _Tamlin said along the bond, but his voice was faint, and the rage in Rhysand was loud._

_"Were they… sold?"_

_Illyrians would fetch a high price, too - no one ever saw them outside of Illyria itself and Prythian. Rhys had no idea what life was like on the continent, but those who had made their way here from there had said it was brutal there, harder, there was no balance of seasons and magic like Prythian, the center of the Mother’s creation, had._

_How much for two Illyrians? What would they be bought for? Two of them, a bonded pair, a pair you could use against each other-_

Rhys, stop it!

_The glass shattered in Rhysand’s hand and he looked down, jolted out of his anger and his own thoughts by a sudden splash of icy cold along his right leg. He was mildly surprised to discover he was holding nothing and his leg was covered in brandy and glass shards, blood dripping from a few spots where it’d cut his hand._

_“Rhys-” Tamlin moved to reach down, but he shook his head._

Are you all right? _At Tamlin’s voice in his mind, the simple question along the bond between them, Rhys had felt his shoulders begin to relax. One of Tamlin’s thumbs began to circle, soothing, just above his shoulder blade. He leaned forward slightly to make it a little easier for him to keep going._

I will be. Thank you.

_“Apologies,” Rhys had said, teeth gritted, and brought the glass back together. It was too late for the brandy to be returned, but he at least dried his pants with a thought, stopped the bit of blood with a bit more effort than that. “I am frayed, these days. Returning to court life was an adjustment even when my brothers were by my side, it is… harder without them.”_

_“I understand,” Tarquin replied, and Rhys tried to tell himself that the expression on the High Lord of Summer’s face was not pity - just compassion. “I am indeed sorry that I had to bring you bad news when you’ve already weathered so much. Please be reassured that we don’t believe they are in any immediate physical danger, my… my contact in Lawless assures me that they are being kept together and healthy. They were able to speak with one of them a few times over the course of the week before my contact sent this latest communication.”_

_“Which one?” The hope in his voice was pathetic, but Rhys did not care._

_“Cassian,” Tarquin said quietly. “They made contact with Cassian. Azriel…” Tarquin hesitated. “Are you sure you want me to-”_

_“What?”_

_Tarquin still hesitated. "It's just that I don't want to burden you further-"_

_"What_ about _Azriel? Please, Tarquin, I'd rather know."_

_“I’m not sure of the circumstances, my contact did not make them clear to me, but they did say that Azriel is… not doing well. Case reports that he doesn't… sleep. Or speak."_

_“He doesn’t-” Rhysand slowly put his glass down on the table. He understood, suddenly, Tamlin’s habit of destroying any room he was in when he was angry for so many centuries. It would have been immensely soothing to shred everything in this room right now. “He doesn’t speak?”_

_“Yes. We are watching them, and I will update you when I know more. We believe it won’t be long before they are on the move, and thankfully I do believe they’ll be coming back to Prythian.”_

_Back to Prythian. His brothers back home where they belonged, and rescue would be much easier if he didn’t have to raze countries he didn’t know to find them._

_“So you know who has Rhysand’s… who has them?” Tamlin had asked the question with a sharp curiosity. The Summer Court had always been responsible for the upkeep of Lawless, although all the other Courts contributed to the costs. What Lawless really looked like - how it ran, and who ran its administration, and every little detail about the terrain, how exactly Tarquin knew anything at all about what was going on there - was a closely guarded secret, wiped from the minds of the exiles who survived their sentences before they went home._

_Tarquin sat back, swallowing, folding his hands in his lap over the loose white linen shirt and pants he wore, the exact same shade of warm summer white as his hair. His eyes glowed, looking at them, lit up with his private thoughts. Tarquin was friendly and kind, open-hearted, and he could never keep an expression off his face for long, but there were secrets he kept, too._

_Rhys knew that he struggled with giving away as much as he already had. He had, after all, been entrusted with a knowledge he was choosing to share with someone he had no reason to trust, and Rhys had no reason to trust him, either._

_No reason except that Rhysand had once killed one of Tarquin’s lordlings out of mercy to keep Amarantha from learning about a plot against her that might have ended with Tarquin as dead as poor Nostrus._

_No reason except that Tarquin had helped Lucien to free Tamlin, had been the first to take the risk that came with trying._

_No reason except that not trusting each other was the reason Amarantha had won in the first place, because none of them had trusted each other enough to ally against her before it was too late._

_“Yes,” Tarquin said finally. “We do.”_

_“Who?” Rhysand had asked, leaning forward. Who did he need to hunt down? Who would he need to kill?_

_“The Court of Dusk,” Tarquin replied. “I know that sounds odd, but-”_

_There was a crackle in the air, like a flash of lightning that had gone unseen, the smell of green leaves and spring. Tamlin’s grip on Rhys tightened suddenly, a hint of claws at the end of his fingers._

_“What?” Tarquin had looked between them, puzzled. “Have you heard of them? We’ve been watching them for years, Nostrus started watching them before me… but I didn’t know anyone else knew of them. Until the past year and a half we thought it was just a two-bit operation with delusions of grandeur."_

_Rhys had taken a deep breath. He hadn’t trusted anyone but his family in so long, since long before Amarantha’s masquerade and the loss of his freedom, and he struggled with even the thought of trusting another Court now._

We have to, _Tamlin thought to him._ He knows things we don’t know. We need to tell him.

_Lucien still had the note from Eris on him at all times, kept in one pocket. Rhys could picture Eris’s neat, crisp handwriting, telling Lucien who had ordered him to break Tamlin apart, whose commands the High Lord of Autumn was following, willingly or not._

_“The Court of Dusk is the reason for what happened at your meeting, Tarq.”_

_Tarquin blinked. “When Tamlin did… whatever that was to us? How?”_

_“Because they-”_

_“Because of Eris Vanserra.” Tamlin pulled away from Rhys and walked over to the large bay window that looked out at the busy streets of Velaris, his back to the two of them. Rhys had looked over at him, felt the nervous worry thrumming between them along the bond. The slightest spring breeze ruffled his mate’s hair, even as he stood inside a townhouse where there was no wind to speak of. "Because it doesn’t take a lot of pressure to convince Eris to see where I will break.”_

_Something in the way he said the Autumn Lord’s name made the hair on the back of Rhys’s neck stand up. He didn’t sound resentful or angry. Tamlin sounded… wistful. Sad._

_Affectionate, almost._

_There was more about Eris and Tamlin that Rhys still didn’t know. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to ask, no matter how badly he wanted to know. He’d never been the type to get jealous over relationships that no longer existed, but he felt himself bristle just the same._

_“Then they’re already here,” Tarquin said softly, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs, looking intently at Rhys. “And if they’re already here, then we need to figure out what’s going to happen next.”_

_“You don’t know?”_

_“No. We thought they were a slaver group at first, when fae began to disappear. It was never enough for us to prove it, we could never track them before. They’re getting… more obvious.”_

_“Which means they no longer find it useful to hide.”_

_“Exactly. To be honest, we were mostly interested in making a point that Summer can handle the upkeep of Lawless. But we managed to capture one of them a couple of years ago, and…” Tarquin swallowed. “I had her interrogated.”_

_“Where is she now?”_

_“Dead.” Tarquin’s voice was flat. “Varian keeps the records on her interrogation if you would like to read them. We had our suspicions and I’d picked up some rumors about your, um, your Illyrians being… considered important. I put one of my people on the ship to see if that fae could figure it out, but…”_

_“What?” Tamlin turned around, and the mating bond was calm again, a constant reassurance that was shared somewhere deeper than thought. Rhys closed his eyes and felt the certainty he'd had, deep in the core of him, since the night he had burned Tamlin's mother's books._

This is my mate, and it took me so long to realize it, but here he is and will always be. I looked in all the wrong places and he was always there.

 _As if he’d heard it himself, Tamlin flickered a smile at Rhys, a smile_ for _him, that briefly wiped away all the long years of everything falling apart; the smile of the guileless young High Fae he’d been friends with for years and years, Tamlin before he’d lost family and his best friend and before Amarantha’s love had taught him how to lie._

_“As much as I know you have been personally hurt by all of this, Rhysand, I must confess that I don’t think you’re the actual target of any of it.”_

_"Then who is?"_

If it’s you, Tam, I’ll slaughter them all. Not you. Never again.

I can defend myself, you know. _There was a hint of humor in Tamlin’s voice, but his expression stayed steady and serious._

Doesn’t matter. No one touches my mate.

_"According to General Cassian’s intel - and I promise you I will reward him for how helpful he’s been so far - the true target is… Thesan. Which poses a problem."_

_"Why?"_

_"Because he has stopped allowing anyone into the Court of Dawn the day after I hosted you all and he won't even acknowledge my requests for an audience." Tarquin sighed, sadly. "Either he knows more than we think he does and he’s preparing some sort of defense, or this has simply been his way of protecting himself from…" Tarquin's voice slowly trailed off, glowing eyes moving to Tamlin._

_Tamlin, whose green eyes were lit with gold and whose scars glimmered around their edges with spring light, the spirals and whorls Amarantha had carved into him with an ashwood knife, over and over until they scarred so deeply the marks did not fade. Rhys was the only one he ever allowed to touch them._

_Except, Rhys had thought with a thrill of jealous anger, that Eris had, hadn't he?_

_Tamlin had only looked away from Tarquin’s thoughtful expression, crossed his arms in front of himself, and frowned off into the distance. “I have never hurt Thesan in my life,” He said carefully. “Not even… not even then.”_

_Which was when all three of them had realized simultaneously something they hadn’t before - when Tamlin had been stealing powers, it wasn’t only Eris that had been left untouched._

_He hadn’t used Thesan’s power against his will, either._

Which left Rhysand with more questions than answers. He knew Cas and Az were alive, at least mostly well, and Tarquin thought the Court of Dusk had them and would bring them back.

He had that much knowledge, but precious little else, and even his long-lived fae patience had frayed under the sense that he was missing something, some puzzle being put into place around him. If there was anything he loathed, it was ignorance.

That, and he was irritated simply by sitting up here by himself. Mor was off in a secret, private audience with her little brother, finding out from Anuie all the things that no one wanted Rhys to know when he wasn’t actively around to keep these vipers from tearing each other apart. Amren was ostensibly in the library researching, but knowing her, she was probably drunk on blood and asleep by now _or_ she'd winnowed to the Summer Court to spend more time with Varian. And Tamlin… 

Rhys closed his eyes, briefly felt along the mating bond. 

Tamlin was shoulder-deep in paperwork with Lucien, who had his sword eternally strapped to one hip now, hand curved, just slightly, around its hilt. Lucien and his _sword,_ and all Tamlin ever had to say about it was that it wasn’t _always_ a sword, and that Lucien had waited a very long time for someone - _something,_ in this case - to love him.

It was strange how he hadn’t had Tamlin at his side for very long but already Hewn City felt empty without the Spring Lord just behind him. Funny, how quickly someone could go from your worst enemy to the one fae you could not live without.

Rhysand had been the one to declare he should stay away on Court nights, and his mate hadn't fought him on it. Tamlin was more prone to bring out his claws, these days, and Rhys did not dare bring him back to Hewn City to let the vicious scheming backstabbers here make pointed comments about the rumors that had gotten out about the High Lords’ meeting and what his mate had done. 

Another experience like what happened with Lyria - or Cauldron forbid, someone else who decided to try and bring up Amarantha or call him a whore - might not end so well. Rhys could not risk his court’s safety, and more importantly he couldn’t risk _Tamlin’s_ safety.

He couldn’t risk losing himself again in the sight of red hair and the need to prove that Tamlin was _his_ and not hers. 

Rhysand thought about Tamlin’s face when he’d confessed. _You can’t do it because I want you to do it again._

 _I miss you,_ he sent through the bond, and didn’t even bother to try to make it sound sultry or smooth or smirking. He just let the words speak for themselves.

There was a pause, thoughts traveling through the fabric of the world to find another mind, and then Tamlin’s reply, a little amused. _Then call me back, Nightmare. All you have to do is call._

He couldn’t do that, though. Not here, not pressed in with this crowd that already loathed Tamlin for what and who he was and hadn’t exactly pretended otherwise. Instead he sat here, bored and annoyed and missing his brothers and wondering how they were doing. Wondering if he would be attacked again, he or Tamlin, although there’d never been another hint of an attempt. Maybe it had just been intended as some kind of distraction.

 _Maybe it had been to ensure you both were weak,_ he thought, sitting a little straighter on his throne. _Tamlin was more easily broken and you were more easily stolen from. Maybe it was never intended to kill you at all._

One of the courtiers in the crowd, dancing in a slow circle with her eyes closed to the thumping beat and liquor-soaked voice of the woman singing with the musicians, looked up and met his eyes. Whatever she saw on his face, she flinched away and faded back into the crowd.

_Stay calm, Rhysand._

Tamlin might be restless, but Rhys wasn’t doing all that well these days, either. He felt… helpless. Or not helpless. He wasn’t helpless - not any longer, not with the deep well of his power settled just behind his heart and at his fingertips whenever he needed it. He felt penned in, uncertain of how to defend against a threat he couldn’t define.

More than anything else, he missed his brothers and wanted them both _home,_ right with him, right where they should be. 

Rhysand thought of the tattoo on his chest and murmured, “Together, always,” knowing no one would even see his lips moving in the dim lights, let alone hear his voice.

What did he have, now? He had a traumatized mate who could be ordered to steal powers - even _his_ \- something he’d never been able to do before. He had word from Tarquin and a note from Eris Vanserra to Lucien mentioning a Court that didn’t exist. That same nonexistent Court had stolen his brothers, the two he had put in criminal exile himself, and Rhysand wasn’t sure he could sit on this throne any longer without _bashing someone’s head in with it._

This throne, these cruel laughing courtiers, felt like _hers_ , not his. It would take longer than this to shake off fifty years of servitude, and he still felt like he didn’t belong, like an imposter posing as a High Lord. Like Amarantha’s Whore let out to play for a while before she called him back home to fuck her, or fuck Tamlin in front of her, or watch her _with_ Tamlin, or…

_Stop. It._

Rhys shifted uncomfortably at the way just thinking about it still made him feel suddenly warm and a little too big for his skin. He was glad at least that Tamlin wasn’t here tonight, since he could trust that the distance between Spring and Night at least kept the worst of his current mental (and, well, physical) state from leaking into his mate. If Tamlin felt this from him, he’d want to know why, and the High Lord of Spring hadn’t exactly been the type to embrace tact _before_ he and Rhys had started sharing a bed and a life.

His mind drifted idly back to Tarquin’s war room, the sense of her tearing his power out using Tamlin’s body, the fogged-over terror that had been ruling Tamlin entirely. Someone else had been in Eris’s eyes and known _exactly_ what words to say to bring out the darkness Rhys’s daemati powers had locked away inside Tamlin’s head. That odd deep dark blue in Eris’s eyes had belonged to someone _else._

Plus, Tamlin had said Eris _apologized_ to him just before it began. In all his very long life, Rhysand had never once heard Eris utter a sincere apology for anything to anyone at all except for his littlest brother. 

There had been no further attempts to attack anyone that he knew of - and Eris Vanserra had stayed in the Autumn Court in total silence since his conversation with Lucien - but it felt like an awful, interminable wait for the other shoe to drop. 

Until, of course, it did.

“My lord,” One of the the higher-up lordlings murmured into his ear. He tilted his head to look over at the much younger High Fae, raising one eyebrow with perfect, practiced disdain.

It all came so instinctively by now, and all of it was a lie.

He should just tell them all who he really was, what he was really like, and see how many subjects he had left afterward. He might end up like Tamlin, with his depleted, empty court slowly filling back up only now under Lucien’s careful stewardship, but… would he really _miss_ any of the ones who would go?

There was something to laugh at. Tamlin had lost his courtiers because he'd become angry and unpleasant and dropped all the ridiculous rules and decorum that had ruled his life… where Rhys might lose _his_ court if they found out he was _kind._

Or was keeping the Court of Nightmares intact just another thing that had mattered to his father more than it ever had to him? Maybe he and Tamlin were still simply repeating old patterns, after all.

“Yes, Pellas,” He said heavily, as though the lordling were an annoyance he might simply unmake with a thought. “What is it?”

“There is a courier here from the Autumn Court,” Pellas said, and the pause before ‘Autumn’ was so minute, and so subtle, that even Rhys nearly missed it. 

“A courier? From Eris?” 

_What are you playing at today, you snake? Tamlin’s not here for you to wound again._

“Indeed, my lord. May I escort her in? She has orders to give you the message before the Court of Nightmares, and... not in private.” Pellas spoke carefully, with an edge of don’t-hurt-me in his voice that came after centuries of working for the infamously cruel High Lord of the Night Court. Not that he ever _had_ hurt Pellas; but the reputation, in the end, was usually enough to keep them hesitant and nervous.

“Send her in,” He said, pitching his voice low and bored.

At the same moment, Tamlin’s voice rang through the back of his mind along the bond. 

_Rhys? A courier is here from Eris Vanserra… for me._

He would have simply stood and left right then, but the crowd parted, moving to either side in the darkness as a brilliant rust-red light shone through them. A female High Fae moved forward, her head held high. She looked like a member of the family - she had the same delicately-drawn cheekbones and jaw that Eris did, but that was where the similarities ended. Hair such a dark auburn it was nearly brown, a splash of freckles across her nose and cheeks, hard brown eyes.

She smiled and dipped into a low curtsy. “High Lord of the Night Court,” She said in a practiced voice, melodic and smooth. “My name is Brenna Vanserra, and I speak for Eris Vanserra, my cousin. I bring you an invitation to his engagement.”

“You may decline,” Rhys said, fighting to keep his voice as calm as hers was. He let his eyes flick down to the large envelope, sealed with wax, that she held in one hand, then back up to her face. “Tell your lord I would rather eat shattered sea glass than attend any event of his.”

“My lord said you might respond that way,” Brenna said, and he could have snarled at the warm humor in her voice. She stepped forward, holding out the envelope. “He told me to inform you, if you did, that there is information in the invitation that you will want to see.”

“Information about what?” Rhys asked, but he looked at Pellas and nodded, and the servant stepped forward to take the envelope from her hand. 

“Information about General Cassian and Shadowsinger Azriel,” Brenna said smoothly. “And about your _mate._ ”

Rhys stared at her, then at the watching crowd of courtiers, lordlings, and others who whispered behind their hands. He took th envelope from Pellas, broke the seal, and unfolded the paper inside to read it.

He read it through once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then he looked up at her, and his violet eyes glowed with anger he barely controlled. The already-dim room became even darker, and a cold breeze blew so hard it nearly knocked Brenna off her feet.

“My lord-” Pellas whispered. “Hospitality laws, she is a duly appointed messenger, you cannot hurt her-”

“I won’t,” Rhys ground out. He looked up at Brenna, who for the first time looked as nervous as she probably should be. “Get the fuck out of my sight.”

“Y-your answer, Lord Rhysand?” She asked, and her voice shook, and Rhys took great pleasure in the sound of her fear.

_Not so kind, perhaps, after all._

Rhys took a deep breath. _I’m sorry, Tamlin,_ he thought. Then he stood, pulling himself to his full height. “You may tell your lord that I will be there.”

“And your mate?”

“... and my mate. Now, I believe, my lady, I told you to fuck off.”

He watched her bow rapidly, nervously, and all but run out the door. He held the envelope in his hands, staring after her. Finally, he waved one hand at his court. “As you were, you scum-sucking cretins,” He snapped, and stalked away. Pellas fell into step behind him, and he said over his shoulder, “Find my cousin and tell her to meet me immediately.”

“At your townhouse, sir?”

“No.” Rhysand smirked, but it was a smirk without humor, a smirk without affection, one crafted entirely from the rage that threatened to burn him from the inside out. “Tell her to go to Rosehall. I need to speak with High Lord Tamlin.”

He barely made it out of Hewn City before he winnowed back to Velaris to his townhouse. In the back of his mind, along the mating bond, his fury crackled and spat and hissed, and he didn’t know what was in Tamlin’s message from Eris but it couldn’t be any worse than what he had read in his.

He walked inside like a man possessed, slammed the shared door between their lands open, and stepped through.

He couldn’t get to Tamlin fast enough.


	22. Short Hiatus

The story will be going on a short hiatus of one week, maybe two. I have the next two chapters written but I am just not happy with them and want some time to rework them to the quality I want to see when I publish. My apologies and check back for the next update in a week or two, then hopefully back to regular weekly updates after that!


	23. It Doesn't Mean I Can't Have Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Updates should be back to being fairly regular again, but you may notice the wordcount getting a little shorter, as I'm going to focus more on updating regularly than the superlong chapters I've been doing. I hope that's okay!

When Rhysand stepped out of the door to Tamlin’s room, kept clean and perfectly unused ever since he’d returned from Amarantha - and sometimes Rhys wondered what it had been like for him to sleep in his study night after night, when he slept at all - he could already hear Tamlin and Lucien arguing right through the closed door.

The fury in him had his hands shaking, fingers clutching the invitation with its hateful words - the  _ secrets  _ Eris had written there, as neatly as if they were no secrets at all - so tightly it wrinkled the expensive vellum overlaid over the paper and turned it all to so much trash.

“You are  _ not  _ going!” Lucien was shouting, and that alone gave away that Tamlin was not in a place of fear or anger, if Lucien felt able to push back. 

Whatever had been in his invitation, it hadn't been enough to set him off.

Lucien sometimes (begrudgingly, but still) called him a good influence on Tamlin, a balm to the famously irrational, unreasonable, dangerously destructive temper. Maybe he was that, in the end. Maybe Tamlin’s temper had always been from being pushed and pressed under the weight of failure and expectation, and when circumstance took all of that away from him, a different male stepped out of the remains of the shattered mask.

Rhys stopped with the door cracked open, swathed his own mind in shields to hide his presence even from his mate, and shamelessly eavesdropped.

Nobody's good  _ all _ the time, after all.

“I  _ am  _ going!” Tamlin did not quite shout back, but he wasn’t far off. “He will not frighten me so much I must hide in my Court like a youngling behind its mother’s skirts! I have seen him at his weakest, too, you know! I have seen him  _ exactly  _ as exposed as he has seen me!”

_ Calm, Rhysand,  _ he thought to himself. If he let himself get angry or jealous at the thought of what Eris had or had not seen Tamlin would know he was here. 

“I am aware,” Lucien said icily. “Of all of us I am the one least surprised by his renewed interest in you _.  _ But this isn’t Eris just wanting to take you to bed, Tam, this is… this is something much bigger, and worse! You're going to be  _ attacked!" _

“We don't know that, and besides, I have stared down the High Queen of Prythian,” Tamlin said softly. “I can take this. I-I took a knife to Amarantha when I knew what would happen when I did, for Rhys, to save… I would have done anything to save him, and that’s strength, isn’t it? I would have killed her for him, I tried… I have strength in me, Lucien! I can face Eris playing a petty game. I have  _ taken a knife to Amarantha herself! _ ”

“Cauldron damn your ego, Tamlin, you  _ died when you did that!” _

There was a quiet, and Tamlin’s temper began to burn along the mating bond, a sudden flush of hurt and anger and, above all the rest,  _ shame.  _ Rhys caught a hint of an unguarded  _ there are so many stars in Velaris and I saw them all when my heart stopped beating  _ in Tamlin’s mind, and pulled back. 

He was eavesdropping, not trying to read his mind, after all, and there was darkness Tamlin didn’t exactly want him to go too deeply into.

“I did not _ die _ ,” Tamlin said stiffly.

Nearly, Rhys thought, but not quite.

_ “You wanted me to love him.” Rhysand heard his own voice, leaning in close to Amarantha, nearly touching her nose with his own. She’d been frozen under his power, the tiny thread of it all he needed, when he’d freed himself from her control, to hold her like a statue until he was ready. “He was this one bright thing I had, just for me, in the dark - and then you took him away too. You murdered my fucking mate.” _

_ Her eyes were wide with pure terror and he had never seen anything - except Tamlin, maybe, the first time they had both wanted to and it hadn’t been ordered, and Tamlin had smiled at him in a way he’d never seen before - more beautiful than that sight. _

_ “Tamlin is the last thing you will ever take from me.” _

The world wavered around him, the walls seemed like transparent fog at the sudden rush of a memory that was nearly more true than what was real. Rhys closed his eyes against it, against the sight of Tamlin collapsing to the ground with his eyes rolled up to the sky, against the panicked fight to heal him faster than the spikes from Amarantha’s final gift to him could burrow through his skin.

That was over.

That was  _ done.  _

But still, Rhys could see Tamlin’s eyes go dull and dark when he closed his eyes, and he’d be lying if he said Tamlin’s near-death didn’t factor heavily in a lot of his nightmares.

Lucien let out a ‘paugh!’ of frustration, slamming Rhys back into the present. “As good as dead, then! You’re only alive because of the Morrigan running herself dry trying to heal your stupidity long enough for someone to help you, and the fact that the High Lord of the Night Court chose to love you more than he loved _ himself!” _

_ Well, that wasn’t very nice. _

“I know what Rhys did, what you-... what you both did. I have thanked you a thousand times for it, Lucien, I don’t see why-”

“I’m not asking for your  _ thanks _ , you arse. I’m trying to say that Rhysand won’t always be there to save you, Tam, and you can’t walk into a dragon’s den assuming he’ll have his hand out for you!” There was a pause, and when Lucien spoke again, his voice was softer. “I’m trying to say that… that if it’s Eris…  _ I  _ can’t always be there to save you. He’s my brother and he doesn’t  _ want  _ to do this, and I don’t know if I can hurt him.”

“I have never  _ once _ asked you to save me _ or  _ hurt Eris,” Tamlin growled, and the beast was there - Rhysand could feel the growl rumble all the way down the mating bond, a hint of Tamlin’s defensive anger in the back of his mind, making his own chest constrict. “I never asked you to  _ save me,  _ Lucien!”

“If I hadn’t traipsed across two-thirds of Prythian, you and Rhys would still be Under the Mountain, and Amarantha would still be our queen,” Lucien replied, but some of the rancor dropped out of his voice. “If I hadn’t gone hunting for the Suriel the  _ day  _ Rhysand took you away from me, you might still be-”

“I know what I would still be, no one has to  _ say it!”  _ Tamlin snapped. “I’m perfectly  _ fine,  _ Lucien, and I am not being enslaved now, I am not hurt, and this is a Prythian-wide event! All the High Lords will be in attendance, all their  _ courts  _ will be there. I’ll be safer than I’ve been since she died!”

There was another pause. Then, in a voice so quiet Rhys could barely hear it, Lucien said, “All the High Lords were there at Tarquin’s meeting, too, and still you went so far into yourself I could not bring you back.”

Along the mating bond, there was a ripple of worry and sadness and Rhys closed his eyes. Tamlin said quietly, “ _ Rhys _ brought me back.”

“But what if he  _ can’t _ , the next time?” Lucien asked, and there was a weakness there, a vulnerability, that the youngest Vanserra never showed. Rhys blinked in surprise - he’d known Lucien and Tamlin were close, thick as thieves ever since he’d rescued him from his murderous brothers, but it was another thing to watch them have a fight that didn’t end with anyone throwing anything. Were they this different, when they thought they had no witnesses?

_ Tamlin, always one to hide a feeling if someone might accuse him of having too many. _

_ “ _ What if Eris digs his claws into your head, and it happens again, and Rhys can’t get you back out? What happens then?” There was a pause. “What if I can’t save you next time?”

“Rhys will always get me back out,” Tamlin said with a simple confidence and certainty, and Rhys felt the heat behind his eyes, the prickle at the corners, and closed them even more tightly to push back the emotion that might give him away. “He will always find me, no matter how dark it is. But it won’t happen again, Lucien, it  _ won’t _ , because we know about it now.”

“You’ll forgive me if I struggle with the idea that I must always rely on Rhysand to be your hero,” Lucien said softly. “After all… for so, so long, he would have been the first in line to stab you in the back.”

“Lucien, I think we both know he would have been the first in line to stab me in the  _ front. _ ”

That seemed as good a line as any to enter on, and Rhys let the door open noisily as he stepped out into the hall, surprising the two High Fae who were standing further down next to the door to Tamlin’s study, each of them holding the same kind of folded invitations Rhys had been given. 

“Rhys!” Tamlin turned to look at him, and his face brightened immediately, a hint of spring sunshine through the windows that lined the outside of the hall, and Rhys was almost  _ angry  _ at him for it, because who could stay furious about the invitation when their mate looked at them like this?

_ You didn’t tell me you were coming. I didn’t feel you. _

_ I like to see your face when I’m a surprise, Spring. _

_ You like to sneak up on people, you mean. Always have. _

_ You can't prove that. _

He moved without hesitation, and when he went to sweep Tamlin into a kiss, the other male simply melted into it. There would have been a time, he thought, when Tamlin would have pulled away, nervous in the aftermath of what affection usually meant coming from Amarantha, or snapped at him for the presumption - and a time even further back in the past when he thought Tamlin might have reacted with terrified elation, if he had been smart enough to notice what all that damn  _ prolonged eye contact  _ Tamlin insisted on had meant when they were young.

When they broke apart, Rhys let a hint of a rakish smile flicker onto his face, letting his forehead rest against Tamlin’s.

“How much of that did you hear?” Tamlin asked, voice slightly husky, arms sliding up around his neck.  

“Only the parts about stabbing you,” Rhys lied easily, flashing his most brilliantly convincing smile - which of course probably just made Tamlin suspicious. “Which I would of course never do, _ I _ would have been smart enough to poison you in a way where no one ever proved I was responsible. Honestly, Tamlin, what sort of fool do you take me for?”

Tamlin laughed, and Cauldron, his laugh lit Rosehall up in a sudden flush of brilliant warm yellow light, a hint of it along his skin and gleaming in the gold flecks in his green eyes. He was Spring everywhere he went, but in his own Court, Tamlin’s moods changed the world around him. “I take you for  _ my f _ ool, Rhys, and mine alone.” 

Rhysand had been High Lord for a long time, but being a High Lord and being  _ mated  _ with one were two very different concepts. Being mates with a High Lord was having a fragment of Creation itself love you, and he had never understood the power there was in that until he’d been on this side of it, until he had been willing to bring down his own world to keep Tamlin breathing, until he’d looked into the white eyes of the mortal god and known he would have sold her his soul itself to save Tamlin’s life. 

_ Is this how it always feels? Or is there something different because we began in the darkest place first? _

“Ah,” Rhysand said, and bent to kiss a trail of bumpy scars along his neck, wishing for a moment Tamlin’s hair was back to how it used to be, long enough that he could have grabbed at it to pull his head back, or at least felt it against his face. But Tamlin kept his hair as short as Amarantha had wanted it, and he’d never been willing to explain just why.

Rhysand thought he knew, in the end - another way Tamlin had to mark himself, to make the world bear witness to the fact that he had suffered. Where Rhysand hid his scars underneath a smirk and the melody of his voice, Tamlin’s were always on display on his face, his neck, his left arm… they were in his eyes, and why not add the short hair to the list of ways he had to make sure no one could forget if  _ he  _ couldn’t?

“Of course,” He said in a smooth voice that wasn’t quite a purr. “Your fool, indeed.”

“For Cauldron’s sake, I’m standing right _ here, _ ” Lucien snapped, rolling his eyes. “You’re shameless. No wonder the Morrigan asks me constantly if Tamlin needs to be spending more time back in Spring, she’s probably feeling rotted from all this saccharine.” His auburn hair hung loose around his shoulders, and he raked a hand back through it in annoyance. “Can you at least wait for us to talk about  _ this-” _ He shook the invitation he held in one hand. “-before you two make moon eyes at each other or go to bed with each other on the floor right in front of Ayla and I?”

The sword was strapped to his hip as always, and for a second Rhys could have sworn it faded, just slightly, and he saw the spectre of a dark-haired woman with blank white eyes like the mortal god wearing white linen that draped across her, transparent, standing to Lucien’s side with a hand on his shoulder. She lifted one finger to her lips in a gentle ‘shush’, and winked at Rhys.

Then the sword was perfectly solid again, and the ghost of the woman was gone.

Tamlin must have seen it, too, because he smiled just the faintest bit and inclined his head in a nod.  _ It’s not always a sword,  _ he said to Rhys through the bond. 

_ No, sometimes it's just… unsettling. _

_ That sword helped protect Velaris, at least pretend to be polite. _

_ … to a sword? That Lucien Vanserra is sleeping with? _

_ He’s not sleeping with the sword, Rhys. _

_ Oh, I guarantee he is. _

_ Not when it’s a sword, and we’re not exactly normal ourselves, Rhysand. _

_ Two High Lords is an entirely different category of strange than a grown male High Fae in a devoted relationship with an ancient magic mortal sword. _

_… is it?_

“Absolutely not,” Rhys said out loud, just as the pause became clearly awkward. “We’ll simply have to discuss it  _ while  _ we make moon eyes at each other.”

“You’re insufferable,” Lucien groaned, and gestured towards the open door to the study. “Get in there before the servants are scandalized or I simply beat the both of you to death with Tamlin’s side tables."

"Your servants can still be scandalized? Mine lost that capability  _ centuries ago. _ "

"You only have the two," Tamlin snorted. "And I still say Cerridwen doesn't like me."

“Oh, she doesn’t,” Rhys said cheerfully, moving in ahead of the two of them. “All that really matters is that  _ Nuala _ does.” The study was… changed. They’d cleaned the wreckage of Tamlin’s last temper, after the conversation with Lyria, but Tamlin hadn’t even tried reconstructing his father’s massive desk and the room was mostly bare now except for a small wood desk (covered in papers) with a chair, a table and set of four chairs in a corner, and the bookshelves lining every wall except where the floor-to-ceiling windows let in the sun.

The drapes were still torn to shreds, although they’d been hung back up on the runners.

Rhys raised an eyebrow, but decided not to ask about that choice. 

“So as I was saying, Tamlin is  _ not going to Eris’s engagement gala _ ,” Lucien said firmly, picking one of the invitations up off the desk and gesturing with it, standing with an easy confidence and one hand on the hilt of his sword. Somewhere in his wanderings and his fight to rescue Tamlin, Rhysand thought, Lucien had grown into himself. He was stronger, more serious than he had been, and significantly less irritating. 

Sometimes.

“And I was saying that I  _ am  _ going, because I am the High Lord of Spring and every High Lord is invited. It would make me look like a  _ coward  _ to hide here at Rosehall while the rest of you go!” Tamlin spun around, grabbing his own invite back up into his hand. “There’s nothing here to be frightened of, and I am  _ not a coward, Lucien!” _

“Better a coward than a  _ tool  _ for whatever is controlling my brother!”

Rhysand licked his lips, the anger back in him as he considered the paper still clutched in one hand, the way Eris’s careful handwriting made all his hateful words seem insufferably, enormously smug. 

He stepped over and laid it down on the desk, smoothing out the wrinkles, letting the other two men continue to snip at each other for a moment longer, with the easygoing kind of fight that came with decades and decades of time spent together. Then, in a voice that casually and effortlessly carried over theirs, he said, “We are _ all  _ going, Lucien.”

“What?” Lucien froze, narrowing his eyes, the metal one whirring in concentration. “I thought  _ you _ of all fae would agree with me-”

“We’re going,” Rhysand said, pointing at the lines written on his invitation that did not appear on other of the either males’, picking the invitation up and looking it over. His blood boiled again, and he fought to calm himself. “Because I have been informed that if I want to see my brothers again, all three of us are required to attend.”

_ What? You didn’t- _

_ I came straight here, Spring. _

_ How could Eris possibly have access to Cassian and Azriel? Tarquin said they’re in Lawless, they were registered. _

_ Eris doesn’t, but his puppetmaster does, and he is very interested in meeting you in person. _

“What does it say?” Lucien asked, eyebrows furrowing together in worry. He reached out for the invitation, but Rhys pulled it slightly away from him, and he frowned. “Can’t help you if I don’t know what’s even written there, High Lord.”

“I don’t want you to read the words for yourself,” Rhys said, pitching his voice low and serious. “Eris wrote…  _ secrets  _ in here, about Cas, and Az, things that he should never have been able to learn about them. Things about my brothers, and…” His eyes went to Tamlin. “Things about you, but I assume he learned those things in the usual way.”

“Things about… me?”

Rhysand closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then opened them again and began reading out loud the things that no one,  _ no one,  _ should have known.

Lucien was right; to know how to build a plan of defense, they needed to know what they were defending against, and they needed the information. He just had to hope Cas and Az wouldn’t throttle him for spilling secrets like this. 

_ I have been given a message,  _ Eris’s writing went, each letter considered carefully placed. Even simply writing a letter, Eris took his time, made sure all the pieces were perfectly in place. Even writing a letter, Eris was hatching a plot.  _ In the event that you choose not to attend my engagement. _

_ Please know that I personally understand why you would - after all, I have no doubt you dig into your mate’s brain to muck up what’s already in there. I know how High Lords are with their mates, after all.  _

_ But of course, I know that you  _ _ will _ _ attend, because I know what will convince you to do so, and to bring that handsome mate - and my darling brother - along with you. It’s not a party in Prythian without Lucien Vanserra, now is it? _

_ Besides, my esteemed benefactor would very much like to see Amarantha's Whores. _

_ If you want to see your brothers, you will attend. They are in the care of the Court of Dusk, and my benefactor is very happy to share evidence to convince you, because he has already had time to understand what goes on inside those Illyrian heads, behind those blank Illyrian faces. He would like to share some information  _

_ Cassian spent his time down in Amarantha’s prisons a curiosity. The guards took coin to allow curious courtiers a chance to feel any part of him they wished. He told you they did not touch him because he is ashamed that he could not defend himself, that he followed orders, did as he was told. He found the late High Queen’s bedroom the safest place Under the Mountain, and when he was under their scrutiny in the prison cells, he used to wish she would call for him just so he could kneel at her feet like a faithful hound and at least no one would be touching his wings. _

_ He is terrified of being locked up, now, and my benefactor assures you that he will be locked up quite tightly indeed.  _

_ The first time your father used Azriel to torture someone, he lost himself in causing pain and killed the male in question before any useful information could be garnered. Your father had his wings and hands whipped to punish him, tied him down like a common criminal, and left him there to bleed for three days alongside the body of the prisoner. You and Cassian were both serving in separate military units at the time, of course, because you always let Da tell you what was best, hm? He had Azriel’s wings healed because he was afraid of what you would do when you found out, and told Azriel as much, and what were a few more scars on a fae already littered with them? _

_ He swore Azriel to secrecy, and the only person Azriel ever told was our dearly departed Estrella, and she took that secret for him to her grave.  _

_ As for your lovely mate… the information I share may be at my benefactor’s orders, but rest assured that this information is mine alone, Rhysand, or should I say ours? After all, you and I have shared, by now, all of Tamlin there is to share. _

_ The first time Tamlin came to me after you slaughtered his family, he did not cry for them, but for the loss of you. He thought of your dear sweet sister and your frankly terrifying mother every day. It was you he mourned first, and most deeply, and he often asked me if I thought you would return to try and make some kind of peace, if there would ever be a way for him to apologize for what he had, albeit without knowing, done.  _

_ You didn’t, though, did you? You never came back, and you declared him your enemy, and it ate him alive soon enough. He turned to rage and anger to calm his grief, he turned to loathing to distract himself from how he really felt, and then - Ah, Rhysand, you must understand how deeply lovely these memories are for me. _

_ Then he spent ten years punishing himself by coming to me and asking for punishment, and I am not a saint, High Lord, who could resist someone like that asking to be hurt? Would you like to know what it sounds like when he begs you to forgive him? _

_ I know what it sounds like. _

_ I rather liked it when he pretended I was you. _

_ I cannot wait to greet you alongside my lovely new betrothed. I assume you’ve met Lyria of Estate Privenah’s eldest daughter? _

_ You’ll come. We both know you will. Let’s not stand on deceit and pretend otherwise. But don’t worry - I intend to let you really hear Tamlin beg to be hurt this time - and my benefactor intends to ensure your brothers play their part. _

_ Regards, _

_ High Lord Eris Vanserra _

_A utumn Court_

_ Court of Dusk _

_ Pawn in a Very Frustrating Game _

_ (but that doesn’t mean I can’t have fun) _

There as a silence when he finished reading, and Tamlin and Lucien both stared at the paper he held in his hand like it was a viper about to bite. Then they looked slowly at each other. “Cauldron, your brother’s a monster,” Tamlin said faintly. His face flared red, but it wasn’t embarrassment or shame Rhysand felt along the mating bond this time, but a pure, unbridled fury. 

The sun outside darkened, just slightly, and Rhys wondered if the people of Spring knew their lord’s moods (and the effect those moods had on the land) well enough to be scurrying inside to get ahead of the thunderstorm about to burst as the clouds began to thicken and darken and block out the sun above their heads. 

He caught a flash of tree branches moving in a sudden breeze through one of the tears in the drapes. 

“I know,” Lucien said heavily. “I know what he is, Tam.”

_ I’m so sorry, Nightmare,  _ Tamlin said along the bond, and Rhys blinked, surprised as the apology slid out without Tamlin’s usual frustrated fight to force himself, meeting furiously angry green eyes with his own slightly despairing violet.  _ I’m so sorry your brothers got stuck in all of this. _

_ I’m sorry that Eris shared your pain when it should have been left private, Spring. _

_ I don’t mind that. Not if it’s you. But we have to save your brothers. _

“We are going,” Rhysand said out loud, in a voice that felt like glass in his throat. “Cas and Az will be there, and we need a plan. Tarquin has already told us who the real target is, we’re just…” He smiled bitterly. “We’re just  _ pawns.  _ All of us, somehow, fit into this and they  _ want  _ us there, so we need to understand why and how we can defend against whatever’s going to happen. Thesan is the real target, no matter what happens to Tamlin or myself. We know that now, thanks to Tarquin. We’ll need to tell him about this invitation, too… he’ll want to help.”

“Tarquin is always the first to hold out a hand,” Lucien said thoughtfully, with a slight smile. “He was so excited to be part of rescuing you, Tamlin. He and Kallias both were the first to sign on to help me.”

“Tarquin is probably a better person than any High Lord should ever be,” Rhys said with a shrug. “I take advantage of it when I can. But if Thesan is the real target, we need him on our side.”

Lucien shook his head. “He’s locked his Court up so tight no one can get in, and he’s not answering any attempts at communication.”

“But…” Tamlin said softly, thinking. “I’ll guarantee you - I’d bet all of Rosehall on it - that Thesan got a letter just like my mate’s. So he’ll be at that gala, even if he doesn’t want to go, even if he knows he’s in danger.”

“He’s Thesan,” Rhysand said, holding his hands out palms-up in a  _ what are you going to do?  _ gesture. “He won’t accept help, it won’t even occur to him to ask.”

“What if we don’t wait for him to ask?” Lucien said, tapping at his lower lip with one finger, the sword gently singing at his side in a song Rhysand could not quite hear, but could almost  _ sense.  _ It really  _ was _ like Lucien had the sword for a mate, in the end.

“What are you talking about, Lucien?”

“Helion.” Lucien grinned, flashing a bright smile, the light catching his metal eye. “He’ll still let Helion in, I guarantee it.”

“Those two do nothing but fight,” Tamlin pointed out, frowning, looking like a man three steps behind in a game and not happy about it. “At every gathering, every gala I’ve ever been to, all Helion does is proposition Thesan and all Thesan does is get increasingly annoyed about it.”

“Sure,” Rhysand said, but his own mind brightened as he realized what Lucien was saying. “But they’re also the two High Lords who have known each other the longest - they were childhood best friends, Thesan’s family used to keep an estate in the Day Court. They’re not  _ fighting,  _ Tamlin, they’re… they’re arguing like  _ younglings do,  _ as part of being friends.”

“They absolutely do not act like friends,” Tamlin said doubtfully.

Lucien shook his head. “My mother spent some time in the Day Court before I was born,” He said, and a hint of sadness crossed his face. He’d been the reason she never ran away again, after all, Beron had tracked her down to the one Court that gave her sanctuary, locked her away, and once they’d realized she was carrying Lucien all the wish to be free had left her. The only fight she’d given was insisting on being the one to name her baby boy, and she’d named him another word for ‘light’. “She used to tell me sometimes that Helion and Thesan have always been playing out some strange method of being friends. He’ll let Helion in.”

“Then it’s decided,” Rhysand said firmly. “Lucien, you go to Helion and get his help to get into the Dawn Court to speak with Thesan and his Peregryn. Tamlin and I will speak with Amren and Mor, and I’m going… I’m going to speak with Lyria.”

“What?” Tamlin’s eyes narrowed. “Why her?”

“Because,” Rhysand said heavily. “Because I doubt she’s wrapped up in this on purpose, but I have to know first, for sure. And once I know, we’re going to make a plan.”

_ You’re going to use me as bait for Eris. _

_ I am absolutely the hell not going to do that, Spring. _

_ Yes, you are. If you need him distracted, I’m the best one to do it. _

They stared at each other in silence, the argument continuing, until Lucien finally stepped slowly between them. “Am I dismissed? This is getting eerie to watch.”

“Yes,” Rhys said at the same time Tamlin said, “No.”

They both sighed.

“Yes,” Rhysand said again, more firmly this time. “I need to speak with my mate in private.”

Tamlin raised an eyebrow.

_ If I’m going to use you as bait, Spring, I need to make absolutely sure it’s me you’re thinking of when it happens, and how better to mark myself in your memory? _

_ You live in my mind half the time, Nightmare, how could I ever forget you? _

_ Does that mean you’re saying no? _

_ We both know it doesn’t. _

When the two of them looked up, Lucien was already gone. They laughed, and it was Tamlin who moved over to the door of the study, slowly closing it and turning the lock. “Well, then, High Lord,” Tamlin said softly. “How exactly do you intend to  _ mark  _ me?


	24. I Would Have Brought Down My World For You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like Rhyslin flirting and smut, because *gestures at the chapter*

“I really,  _ truly  _ don’t like your ‘use the male I love as bait’ plan, Tamlin,” Rhys said when the door was securely shut and locked. 

He leaned back against Tamlin’s smaller desk - smaller but just as solid, just as strongly built to withstand the temper and occasional destructive furies of the High Lord who used it - and crossed his arms in front of himself, watching the High Lord of Spring hesitate, just slightly, before turning to look at him. "I don't intend to do it because I think you  _ want  _ me to, Rhys."

"Obviously. It’s because you’re a stubborn ass.”

“No, it’s because I’m  _ resourceful _ and well aware your best bet to distract Eris Vanserra is by throwing him something he wants.” Tamlin shrugged, looking down at himself, then back up. “For some reason I can’t fathom, it’s me.”

_ You really can’t fathom why? _

_ He can't hurt me like he used to - I don't want him to like I did, then. What is there for him to want? _

_ Where’s your legendary ego, High Lord? _

_ You’re the one with a legendary ego - mine left when Feyre was torn apart and I had to kneel to Amarantha. _

There’s no reply he can give to that, nothing he can say to remove the hint of regret along the bond between them - regret for the loss of the mortal girl Tamlin had fallen for, all her potential and the starlight in her eyes. He can’t fix that.

Instead, Rhys let the silence draws out, took the moment to look - to really _ look -  _ at Tamlin.

The shaggy short hair, golden and just faintly shining, the high pointed ears, the green-and-gold eyes, even his loose hunting baldric and pants all made him look like he’d stepped out of a mortal painting of a fae. Spring had always been the Court that fit the image the mortals had of them - honestly, since it was the only place that still shared a border with mortal lands, that was probably  _ why _ mortals had the image of the fae that they did.

The only thing that kept him from looking like some mortal painting was the fact that the left side of his body had been so heavily, visibly marked.

Even the scarring, unhidden, unglamoured, just made him seem even more striking to Rhys. If Amarantha had meant it to mar him or to ruin him, she had failed miserably right up until her final breath. Rhys would never see it as anything but proof he had survived her.

Tamlin carried his scars on the outside, but when the light of Spring lit them up, they seemed more like the first flower buds after the final thaw than they did evidence of years spent underground.

“Will you at least  _ admit  _ that it’s a terrible plan and your plans should probably no longer involve you simply throwing yourself bodily at the problem and hoping the impact of your body will fix it?”

“I’ll admit no such thing, and you’re the last person to complain about someone thinking self-sacrifice is the answer.” Tamlin bristled, the barest bit, and for a moment Rhys was nearly nostalgic for every Prythian-wide event where they’d done nothing but snipe at each other over their drinks all night and aggressively flirt with each other’s dates.

“Fair enough.”

“Besides, I’m a hunter. I know when prey needs to be baited in order to be trapped.”

“And you think Eris Vanserra needs to be… trapped?”

“I think Eris Vanserra already  _ is  _ trapped. I think we bait him away from one trap to another and take a weapon from the hands of whoever is running this Court of Dusk. And I think, if you use me right, you can do it.”

“I’m not sure I like the idea of anyone ‘using’ you, Tam, not now. Not after everything.” He didn’t intend it, but there was a hint of vulnerability in his voice, the barest edge of the last fifty years and more important, the final two. 

“It’s not the same,” Tamlin said, and his own voice softened. “You’ll be there.”

“I was there before, too.” Rhys sighed, ran a hand back through his hair, only to have it fall right back over his violet eyes. “I was there for all of it, you might recall. Or most of it, anyway.”

“Still not the same. This time, you have every ounce of your own power and no one can stop you."

_ Unless you take it from me. Unless you stop me. _

_ So we make sure that doesn’t happen. _

_ How? What if I can’t rescue you? _

_ You can. You will. _

Just like listening to him with Lucien, the simple, certain confidence in Tamlin’s voice - even if only the voice that moved along the bond between them - was startling, and a little unsettling. It had never been like Tamlin to be so sure in anyone else’s sense of heroism.

Not since they were young, at least.

"This just seems like a poor excuse for a plan. We're dealing with something we don't understand and you're throwing yourself at the snare."

"I was  _ trying  _ to throw myself at  _ you,  _ before you chose to keep talking about this." Tamlin raised an eyebrow, a flicker of irritation in the light around him. 

Rhys sighed. "Fair enough. We have time to plan later. I've had a long day at court and you’re too far away from me, Spring.”

_ Mocking my ability to plan for a battle isn’t exactly the right way to get me closer. _

_ Then tell me the right way. _

“Say please,” Tamlin said out loud with a grin, a hint of his old self in the expression, cocksure and overconfident. Although even that had been a mask, long before he wore one for real. 

“Hm. What if I don’t say  _ anything _ ?” Rhys asked, thoughtfully, but his voice dropped, slightly, went a little husky. 

“I don’t think you’re physically capable of not saying anything,” Tamlin replied, leaning his back against the door, face warming. “But I’m willing to watch you try.”

Rhys started to open his mouth with some witty retort, caught the  _ told you so _ on Tamlin's face, and closed his mouth again. Then he simply leaned himself a bit more against the desk and began to unbutton his own shirt, until the edges of the tattoo he shared with his brothers began to show, the layered black over skin that was back to the deep, warm brown tan that had gone ashen and faded during five decades under Amarantha's power.

_ That is definitely cheating,  _ Tamlin said, swallowing hard, eyes dropping to watch Rhysand's fingers undoing first one button and then another, and even along the mating bond his voice seemed half-choked and a little hoarse, until his shirt was open to the navel.

_ Well, what are you going to do about it? This doesn't count as talking, by the way. _

Tamlin laughed, and there was a rustle of breeze in the tree just outside the window, a flicker of warm golden sunlight  through the claw marks in the drapes.

_ Cheater. Let's see who speaks first. Didn't you say you wanted to mark me? _

_ Can't do that from all the way over there, Spring. _

Rhys tilted his head to let the hair fall just so over one eye, watching Tamlin move slowly over to him, the suggestion of muscles that shifted in his legs under the fabric of his pants, built by centuries of soldiery and horseback riding.

_ I think I'd rather  _ you  _ mark  _ me,  _ Tamlin _ .

_ Be careful what you wish for; I like having claws. _

_ I like looking at you with claws. _

 For a moment, nothing traveled between them along the mating bond but a simple appreciation from each for how the other looked.

Rhys knew he looked good - he always did, it was at least a third of his personality by this point. Compared to Tamlin’s shimmering gold and verdant green, the sense of Rhys was a violet darkness and a chilly, icy cold, a nip at the end of your nose when you still held a warm drink in your hands. 

They were starlight and roses, together, and it was trite and sentimental but Rhysand had always been more of a romantic than he'd ever admit. It used to be only Tamlin had known that about him - and maybe that was true, again.

Tamlin's eyes were focused, as he moved up, face gone serious and thoughtful, looking over the tattoo that bound Rhys and his brothers, putting up one hand to lay over his chest, just over his heart.

_ I'll bait Eris, you go after your brothers, Lucien and his sword can get Helion and Thesan to stand with us, and we show them that after Amarantha, we are neither one of us a High Lord who can be trifled with.  _

_ I trifled with you all the time. _

_ I let you. _

_ Now that's a lie- _

Tamlin's hand went up to clap over his mouth, still smiling a little, the barest hint of white teeth, before shifting to hold his chin. 

_ How you think that’s going to stop me from talking to you along the mating bond is beyond me. _

_ I don’t. But this holds you in place for this. _

Tamlin leaned forward to kiss him, letting his hand drop away from his chin to join the other on his chest, and the warm light through the windows seemed to brighten, the breeze outside shifting to something gentle that barely moved the leaves. Tamlin’s hands were warm and limned at the edges with the same light that came from, the sun, sliding up to slip his unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall into a puddle of fabric on the small desk.

When fingertips slid down the front of his chest, over the tattoos, down the visible muscles along his abdomen, and to the waistband of his pants, Rhys put one hand over Tamlin’s and shook his head. “I’m not going to be the only one taking clothes off,” He said with the faintest hint of a smirk

Tamlin’s smile brightened, and so did the sun outside. “Made you talk,” He said in a low, husky voice. “Which means I win.”

“And what do you want as your reward for winning, exactly?”

“The satisfaction of being better at this game than you,” Tamlin murmured, pulled back and turned as if to walk away.

Rhys’s hand snapped up to grab him by one arm. “Oh, I don’t think so,” he all but purred. “You don’t get to kiss me like that and walk  _ away.” _

**"** But you lost,” Tamlin threw over his shoulder with mock dismissiveness even as color was rising in his face, and Rhys couldn’t quite keep back his laugh at how even now, even after everything, his mate was perhaps one of the poorest liars in Prythian. 

He might have learned to lie to Amarantha, but he had never learned to lie to Rhys.

“I don’t think I’ve lost a damn thing,” Rhys said, using the arm to spin Tamlin back around to face him, grabbing at the baldric to pull it over his shoulder and off of him, tossing it with a clatter to the side, the movement fluid as silk. “The thing about being mates, Spring-” He pulled at the hem of Tamlin’s shirt, freeing it from his pants, pulling it over his head. “The thing about being mates is I  _ cannot  _ keep my hands off you and I have spent my  _ whole day  _ having to do exactly that.”

“A whole day,” Tamlin replied with a grin, hands up to Rhys’s face to pull him back for another kiss, the two of them moving towards the table, until Tamlin bumped into it. His skin was warm, his mouth warmer, and their tongues moved against each other with a heat Rhysand would have happily drowned in. “How… however shall you survive?”

“By not keeping my hands off you for a single moment longer,” Rhysand murmured, pulling his mouth free only to trail kisses along the scars on the left side of his face, licking down the line of bumped skin on his neck, to the spiral that rested just over his collarbone and his heart. 

Tamlin hummed, low in the back of his throat, tilting his head back to give better access, and Rhys wondered sometimes at this - before Amarantha, Tamlin had been known more as a beast of a man with the female fae he took to bed, but with Rhys he wasn’t exactly less of a beast, but he was… different.

Rhys took advantage of the moment of distracted to grab Tamlin by the thighs and simply shift him upwards until he was lying on his back on the table, knocking a pitcher of water and glasses off to the side where they shattered on the floor. 

“Wh-why-”

"They were in the way. We’ll put them back together later,” Rhys murmured, hands massaging along the line of the muscles he could feel shifting under those heavy knit pants Tamlin always wore, as the High Lord of Spring smiled up at him and the light that shone off of his skin, when his glamours were down, went to the gentle golden yellow of late afternoon, of contentment. 

“Half the fun of being your mate is watching your light change when you are happy with me,” Rhysand murmured, and went back to kissing along his scars again, licking the little bumps and feeling Tamlin shiver under the attention. “Your light,” He said softly, “and your world.”

Tamlin smiled at him, shifting hips slightly upward until he met Rhys’s where he bent over him, and both males shuddered at the gentle pressure of it. “Your world changes, too, when we’re in your Court,” He said softly, sliding hands up over Rhys’s shoulders, the slightest, barest hint of the claws in his back.

Rhys groaned at the hint of pain alongside everything that felt like pure pleasure, sharpening the knife’s blade of loving someone as dangerous as a High Lord, whose moods were as changeable and changing of his world.

How did you live, as a lesser fae, with the flights and fancies of a High Lord what your life centered around? He’d never really considered it before - the only lesser fae he’d given a damn about were Nuala and Cerridwen and Cas and Az. He cared about the citizens of Velaris in general, cared about Illyrians as a people whose blood made up one-half of his, he cared about the success of the Night Court, but he’d never really thought about the bad days, just after Amarantha died and Tamlin was here not sleeping and Rhys was in Velaris gradually losing his mind with missing him.

Mor had been nearly frantic trying to get him to stop moping, and maybe - if he thought about it - it had been as much because his moods were keeping the clouds heavy and dark, an awful wretched wet snow falling, as it had been about whether or not Rhys actually felt better.

_ Now I think you’ll see that even if I lost your challenge, I have not lost a single thing at all, and we’re still going to talk about your half-arsed hare-brained plan later.  _

Tamlin’s head dropped back in a laugh just as Rhys let his teeth graze along the place where his neck and shoulder met, let his own beast shift, just a little, to make for sharper teeth, and Tamlin hissed at the flash of pain and pulled him closer with claws that dug a little harder into his shoulders, hips rising against, and Rhys groaned, dropping his hands to frantically work at the buttons to Tamlin’s pants to slide them off.

_ I have at least one whole hare’s worth of brains, Nightmare.  _ Tamlin’s laughter rang off the walls and it was maybe Rhysand’s favorite sound in all of Prythian, the free and easy laughter of someone you love after they have survived hell and begun to heal from it. 

_ Not too long ago you’d have punched me for insulting you like that, not laughed and watched me take your pants off.  _ He slid them down over Tamlin’s hips, baring even more tanned skin, the flat planes of skin just inside the line of his hips, powerful leg muscles.

_ Not long ago you hated me. Now I know all those insults were just because you couldn’t wait to get me out of my baldric. _

_ I never once insulted you because I was thinking about your  _ baldric,  _ Spring. _

“Besides,” Tamlin murmured out loud, pushing himself to sit back up on the table, leaning forward to undo Rhys’s buttons as well, letting his forehead rest on the other man’s shoulder. “I definitely insulted you once or twice while thinking about your boots.”

Rhys pulled back, slightly, as Tamlin worked the pants off his hips, taking in a surprised breath. Tamlin looked up and laughed at an expression that was no doubt entirely baffled. “My  _ boots?” _

“Yes.” Tamlin sat back on his hands, looking up at Rhys from where he sat on the table, hair mussed already, nearly naked and already there was a flush to his face and a growing hardness between his legs. “I was thinking about how they’d look in a pile at the foot of my bed.”

Tamlin reached out, pulled Rhysand back to him for a kiss, and the world clicked into place around and within and between them, like it did each and every time.

_ This one is mine,  _ the certainty sang in Rhys, and he gradually bent over Tamlin, kicking off his own boots and getting his pants the rest of the way off, laying him down fully on his back on the table, grabbing him by the legs to pull them up by the knees.  _ This one is mine and was always mine and I only ever needed to notice. _

Having a mate was heady, and he could see why not everyone was granted one. He’d already made more than a few idiotic decisions simply because he could never shake the sense of there being another half of him out there to protect, to keep safe, to risk everything for.

They said the Cauldron chose mates for its own reasons. Fae tended to assume it had something to do with bearing children, but this one - he hadn’t figured out the reason for Tamlin being his just yet.

And he didn’t particularly care. Reason or not, all that mattered was that when they looked at each other, they knew, now - and they would waste no more time pretending otherwise.

“Do you have anything in here to get ready?” Rhys asked, a question he tore out of himself when it took all his strength to even care enough to pause, long after he had lost himself in the way Tamlin’s stomach muscles moved under his skin as they ground against each other, after making a slow and careful study of every single scar with his tongue and teeth, after the both of them were nearly hard enough to hurt and even Rhysand’s iron self-control was cracking.

_ I have had you in every conceivable way by now, after her, but I like you best when you smile at me the whole time like this. _

Tamlin raised an eyebrow where he lay on his back, legs wrapped around Rhys until his heels dug into his back, inexorably pressing them back together at the hips, moving his own upwards just a little until Rhysand’s knees buckled slightly, pulling a low moan from him. “What do you think? You’re not the first High Fae I’ve had in this study, Rhys, of course I keep things in here.”

He fought the initial surge of jealousy -  _ my mate, mine -  _ but Tamlin hadn’t been his mate then, and their lives had been entirely different.

Although he still wanted to know who else Tamlin had had in here since he took over as High Lord. Eris? Some other High Fae, maybe one of the women who lived here?

… Lucien?

“I don’t know if you remember this,” Rhysand said in a soft voice, dropping down to kiss at his neck, to suck at the skin and let the barest hint of his own beast’s fangs through to nip until Tamlin moved under him nearly helplessly, “but some mad bastard destroyed everything in this study not too long ago.”

“It was some  _ other  _ mad bastard’s fault, as I recall,” Tamlin groaned, arching his back to press himself closer to Rhys. “It’s in the desk drawer, third from the bottom.”

“... So the top drawer, then,” Rhys said with a grin, nipping at a sensitive bit of skin and being rewarded with a real, true moan from Tamlin for the first time. 

“Stop dis… distracting me and I’ll remember how to  _ speak,  _ Nightmare.” 

“But the distraction is so much fun, Spring,” Rhys said, flashing his most rakish and charming smile before pulling away, gently extricating himself from Tamlin’s legs to rummage through the desk, returning with what he needed, setting the bottle of oil down next to Tamlin on the table. “Don’t knock this off or it’ll be hell getting it out of the floorboards.”   


“Will it?” Tamlin asked, and his eyes were slightly half-lidded, gold specks in the green moving lazily around. How did mortals live, with so little color and light and  _ magic  _ under their skin? How did they deal with looking into someone’s eyes and seeing simply a plain, solid, unmoving color that did not shift or change?

“You’re right. I don’t give a damn if you knock it off the table or not. But first…” Rhys grinned, shaking a bit of black hair out of his eyes, looking over the High Lord of Spring, the male he had liked and hated and loved over the course of centuries, that he had first bedded miserable and under the control of pure evil, that he had learned to love in a darkness that had been slowly crushing him. “At least me make sure you enjoy yourself as much as I do.”

“Rhys, I don’t think anyone in Prythian is capable of enjoying themselves as much as you do.”

“That sounds like a  _ challenge _ , Tam.”

“You’ve already lost one challenge, today,” Tamlin said, raising himself up on his elbows, tilting his head. The short hair close-cropped along beside his pointed ears, the smile on his face that had no shadows haunting along its edges - he looked centuries younger. Rhys could almost have believed they had found each other sooner, been sneaking time in his father’s study when the rest of the family was out.

Almost.

Except for those scars.

“Shouldn’t you try to win  _ this  _ one?” Tamlin asked, and his voice was a little husky, a slightly ragged edge along the masculine warmth. 

“I think the idea is to ensure that we  _ both  _ do,” Rhys said, just looking at him, thinking,  _ mine, you were always there, you have always been mine. _

_ Then stop talking so much. _

Rhys laughed out loud, a low, rumbling sound entirely unlike Tamlin’s brighter voice, and inclined his head in a nod before folding himself over Tamlin where he remained on his back on the table, kissing in silence and the wash of light and life between them along the bond. 

He didn’t stop while putting the oil on his fingers - ingenious invention, this oil. He kept Tamlin’s mouth on his and enjoyed the feeling of the hands still grasping at his shoulders, the hint of pain from the claws that Tamlin couldn't quite keep from the ends of his fingers.

“Lift your hips.”   


The only time, day or night, maybe in all of history, that Tamlin, High Lord of Spring, happily obeyed an order.

He pulls back a little, using one oil-slick hand to wrap around Tamlin while the other presses slowly into him, watching with intent violet eyes as his mate cannot decide which way to move his hips - up into Rhysand’s hand, down into his hand - and there is nothing he would rather be doing than this.

_ I would have brought down my world for you,  _ he thought, watching his back arch, a sheen of sweat breaking out across his shoulders and stomach, feeling the way his heels dug into his back and the warmth of legs wrapped around him.  _ I would have brought down a world and lived as a slave and knelt to pure evil, all for you, as long as you were beside me.  _

_ And I would do it again. _

Tamlin reached out to grab him by the wrist, the claws coming and going seemingly without his input by now, looking at Rhys through eyes glazed with pure lust, the gold sparks lit up and glowing. The breeze had picked up outside in a wholly different way than before, and he thought he could see Tamlin’s hair move in it, even though he couldn’t feel it in here. “Enough.  _ Now, _ ” Tamlin growled.

“Say please,” Rhysand replied, teasing, curling his fingers within Tamlin at the same time he moved the hand around him, thumb moving to press over the tip and rub just the barest bit.

There was a breath, a pause of near-silence, where the only sound was Tamlin shifting under his hand and up into his other and then he fell back, thrust his hips hard upward, and groaned, “ _ Please,  _ then, you Cauldron-damned  _ monster.” _

_ Didn’t appreciate the last part, but I’ll see what I can do with the first. _

_ I think you know what you can do. _

Tamlin moved his own hips up to line up with Rhys and he smiled at the sight of him, of pure power in a fae body undone by lust because of  _ him,  _ not for the first time or the last but  _ this time,  _ and he never doesn’t stop to appreciate it.

Pressing himself into Tamlin, slowly, bit by bit, giving his body time to adjust, he kept his eyes on Tamlin’s face, on the shifting expressions, the way his mouth opened, head turned to the side, the way his hips moved to push him in further, until finally they were fully connected and he could feel a deep, pure, unrelenting  _ heat. _

“I love you,” He said hoarsely, black hair in his eyes again and he didn’t bother to try and shake it out. 

Tamlin groaned something inaudible in response, hips moving, and when Rhysand was still, Tamlin finally looked back up at him, grabbed him by the shoulders, and pulled him down, his knees bent up nearly to his own chest, and growled, “ _ Move _ ,” with claws dug deep into his shoulders.

Rhys laughed, pulled back, and then thrust in hard for the first time, sliding his right hand up under his back while his left stayed busy curved around Tamlin, keeping the movement timed to match the rhythm of his thrusts, letting their foreheads rest against each other, the both of them breathing in quick exhales.

A nonstop run of shared thoughts and emotions and physical sensation went back and forth between them along the bond, the heightened sense of experience this from both sides of it, Rhysand feeling both his own deep pleasure and Tamlin’s heat around him but also sensing Tamlin’s pleasure at the hand still moving around his cock and Rhys buried deep within him, all sense of rhythm and careful order gone.

WIth his mouth buried against Tamlin’s neck and the other male’s arms around his neck, Rhys let himself go. Let all of it go - the last couple of months, his panic on behalf of his brothers a world away, the sight of Tamlin undone and stealing power from every High Lord one by one, his own constant nightmares, the way he still paused each time he went to take his throne and fought the compulsion, conditioned over five decades, to kneel to a woman whose heart he had ripped from her chest with his bare hands.

He let it go, drowned in the heat and the moment and the certainty, as simple and sure as Tamlin’s earlier words, that it didn’t matter what happened, not for a moment. If Tamlin needed rescuing, he would rescue him.

Simple as that.

As certain as the mating bond.

The upside to the shared experience was that Rhysand could _ feel  _ when Tamlin’s own thrusting became more purposeful, feel the growing pressure and pleasure between them, pulled taut, ready to snap.

He moved faster, pushing himself harder and deeper into him, focused on the burst of light along the bond, on Tamlin’s moans growing louder alongside his own, on the scent of starlight and roses.

He timed himself perfectly - as always, Rhysand never did  _ anything _ less than perfectly if he could help it, and definitely not  _ this _ \- to drive Tamlin to the edge and over right as he came himself, his hands digging in to Tamlin’s sides along his ribcage, Tamlin’s legs wrapped so hard around him it was nearly an ache around his own, claws dug into his back.

_ Rhys- Nightmare-... I love you- _

_ I love you, Spring. _

_ Mate.  _

_ My mate.  _

_ Mine. _ **  
**


	25. Lucien Spellbreaker

The Court of Day accepted Lucien’s request for permission to visit Helion with almost unseemly speed.

He hadn’t bothered to write - he didn’t want to wait. They needed time to come up with more information than they currently had, some kind of plan for defense - and if he lingered too long on the idea that what they had to defend against at least included his only living brother - and the only brother who had ever shown him the slightest hint of compassion or affection - he might back out of it.

Instead, he’d simply gone back to his own rooms and changed his clothes into something a bit more formal - green shirt and pants the color of a deep evergreen wood, a color he knew would set the red of his hair off brilliantly and bring out the sparkle in his metal eye. It was a color he thought Helion would like on him. Gold embroidered thread covered the shirt in the shape of spirals, whorls, and stylized leaping fawns.

He’d worn this outfit last not too long ago, hadn’t he? As he looked down at himself, his hands stilled. It had been when Tamlin’s mortal girl was still alive. When Feyre Archeron had seen him in it, she had laughed, a bright and brilliant sound, as much with delight as with mockery. She’d laughed with one hand over her mouth as though she were trying to stop herself and failing, and he’d rolled his eyes and wished, the way he’d wished every day in one form or another, that he could just take the fucking mask off and let her really _ see  _ him.

_ He knows you loved her, too,  _ Ayla murmured into his mind. 

“I don’t see how anyone could do anything else,” Lucien replied, his voice carefully, casually unbothered, as he ran fingertips over one of the little dancing fawns. “She was much easier to care about than she ever gave herself credit for.” Feyre had thought the fawns were hilarious but she’d told him it looked good, in the end, and laughed all the more at him for his bristling bruised ego.

She’d teased him mercilessly for days about High Fae and their pride and vanity, in a way she never was quite comfortable enough to tease Tamlin.

She and Tamlin had been intensity itself, hardly able to keep their hands from each other, but with him Feyre had been surprisingly talkative, the skilled hunter who had simply needed better circumstances to show her worth.

Would she still be alive if she had never come to Rosehall? She’d been more than half-starved when Tamlin brought her to Spring. Maybe she’d have survived if she’d only chosen Lucien instead of Tamlin - after all, he’d ended up at Amarantha’s feet in the end, regardless.

Feyre had been a shattered last hope.

No. That wasn’t quite right.

The last hope had been  _ Rhysand _ .

They just hadn’t known it yet.

_ Does it bother you?  _ Ayla’s song was low, compassionate, gentle lifting notes in his mind.  _ That her body houses my mother now? _

“No. Her body stopped housing  _ her  _ long before that. It’s only a body. Mortals shed them so quickly.”

Still - the sight of her sitting up in the library in Velaris with those blank white eyes and looking right at him had been enough to fill him with terrified, awful guilt and elation all mixed up together.  _ I wanted Spring to be better for you. I tried to be better for you, Feyre. _

Mor looking at him with such utter compassion and knowledge and saying, in a soft understanding voice,  _ It’s not her. _

He’d known it wouldn’t be.

Still, perhaps he could take some of her with him, wearing this outfit, when he went to beg an audience with the High Lord of Day. She had liked the little fawns despite her laughter, had thought the spirals were beautiful, had mentioned the way the color set off his skin’s light brown and his auburn hair. 

She had been a funny sort of woman, half-immersed only in the outside world and in a nature she clearly understood better than she could grasp the rules and protocols of life in Rosehall when Tamlin still wrapped himself up in doing what was  _ expected of him,  _ winding down the clock until Amarantha came to collect.

Collect she had - a mortal life and Tamlin’s body and at least part of his mind. And in the end Lucien had seen a hundred futures laid out before him, when he was with the Spirit of the Glass, and he knew very well that even in the best of them, Feyre Archeron had never been meant to stay at the Spring Court - had in fact been destined to bring it to ruin alongside the High Lord that in this time was Tamlin’s mate.

Lucien sighed, trying to shake off the morbid thoughts. Whatever was true of those other futures, those other times, in  _ this  _ one Rhysand was unquestionably devoted to Tamlin, and Tamlin quite obviously head over heels in return. 

Now if only those bastards had figured it out sooner, maybe Lucien could have saved Feyre himself somehow, taken her back to her mortal world or simply… had a chance, one he would never have again.

_ But then you would not have met me.  _ Ayla’s voice was edged with jealousy and he let his hand drop to the hilt of the sword, curving around it, in reassurance. The discordant notes in her song settled back into a harmony, but it was hesitant, worried.

“You’re better,” He said soothingly, but he wasn’t entirely sure that was true. “For one, I have you for life, don’t I?”

_ Fae lives are very long. We will know each other a long time. It is strange to be bound to someone with so many years to look forward to. _

“Sure, if I don’t get myself killed trying to keep Tamlin from getting  _ himself  _ killed. Will you behave yourself today? I can’t get distracted while trying to speak to Helion Spell-Cleaver, he is… distracting enough in and of himself.”

_ Distracting how? _

“Well, the last time I was sent with a message for his court, I intended to stay for an hour at most and ended up leaving three days later with the names of several young ladies who would like to see more of me.” Lucien quirked a one-sided smile that slowly faded from his face. “Granted I had… I had two eyes then.”

The metal eye whirred, its constant low almost-noise a comfort that ran underneath all of Lucien’s thoughts. The scar that tore down his face, the scar he never explained and everyone assumed was entirely due to Amarantha’s actions. He had never told anyone, although Tamlin had been there to see it and more than a few of the Spring Court’s servants knew, that the scar was so large because he’d torn his own face open wider in his fear.

He could still remember the way all of Spring had trembled at Tamlin’s rage and inability to take true revenge, the hours of formless agony he had spent waiting for the healer after Tamlin carried him inside Rosehall to lay him out on a table, his High Lord and best friend holding tightly to his hands to keep them from going back to dig into the wound, trying with helpless, reckless panic to dig out the pain.

The way Tamlin had first seen what had happened to his face and thrown up alongside the path, but by the time they made it into Rosehall Tamlin looked right into the wound without fear, without any sign of disturbance, and only held onto his hands tightly and said,  _ the healer is coming, Luce, please hold on for me, the healer is coming. _

Tamlin’s face had been calm and his voice had been a soothing constant murmur, but Lucien had flashes of memory, sometimes, of the terrible storm that had lashed tree branches against the windows, the howling of a furious wind outside the door.

His voice had been nothing but a soothing affection and assurance, but the storm outside Rosehall had nearly flattened the whole Court by the time Tamlin’s anger on behalf of him had run itself dry. It had taken weeks for magic to regrow the flattened crops in the fields, to clear the fallen trees and branches, to fix the damaged homes of the inhabitants who had had no choice but to huddle and wait for Tamlin’s rage to pass.

Tamlin had held Lucien through his obligations and fear of his brothers, true, but he held him through simple loyalty and love, too. It had all been mixed up, the sense of being trapped here and of this being the one place where he would be allowed to feel safe.

Tamlin had been his keeper but also his best friend, and he was now only the latter. They both understood Lucien could leave whenever he wanted. 

They also both understood (at least Lucien hoped they both did) that he wasn’t going anywhere.

In Prythian, imperfection that could not be fixed and went unhidden was often unforgiven, and Tamlin had never batted an eye as the scar never fully disappeared, had been the first to encourage him not to glamour it, to let the world see what had been done to him and call it strength, not damage.

He would do anything for Tamlin - would, and had, and would again. 

He would even face Helion Spell-Cleaver again in his own Court, in his own power, with that purring low voice that was a nonstop trail of innuendos and offers that Lucien of course could never have accepted, always thinking in his mind,  _ I think my mother loved you, when she could love at all, before my father locked her away and ensured she had me so that her cage would never have a weakness, ever again. _

It was an odd feeling, to be the trap your mother had been caught with, to know that she looked at you with love but also with the recognition that without you, she would be free.

He looked himself over in the mirror, head tilted, tucking a bit of hair behind one ear, smoothing what was probably an imaginary wrinkle out of his shirt. “How do I look, Ayla?”  _ What would you say if you were here to ask, Feyre? _

_ You look like you should be the High Lord here, not Tamlin,  _ Ayla sang gently to him.

He grinned, cocking his head the way Tamlin did sometimes, a bit of hair falling into his face. “I sort of have been for the past few years, haven’t I? No one seems to mind.”

_ You have a natural talent for it, it seems. _

“Don’t say that. High Fae with a natural talent for running things… well, I hope I’m not Eris’s heir,” Lucien groaned, turning to walk back out of his room and down the hall. “I never want to have to stay in that place ever again.” Outside the light was a brilliant and bright golden yellow shining in through the windows, the trees moving in a perfect gentle springtime breeze. Fluffy white clouds drifted across the sky in shapes you could nearly read.

Idyllic and perfect and just the right temperature to be indoors  _ or _ out. Rosehall shifted around them with contentment, an old house settling into its foundations. 

A hint of flower-scent in the breeze just barely ruffled Lucien’s hair.

Lucien rolled his eyes. “Well, good to know  _ Tamlin  _ is having a good time. I think I liked it better when Rhysand’s  _ bedroom eyes  _ weren’t affecting our weather.”

From a doorway as he passed, he heard one of the servants stifle a laugh.

By the time he made it downstairs to the front door, he had his head high, shoulders back, and hand resting easily on Ayla’s hilt. He carried himself in every way not like the messenger of the Spring Court but instead as its acting Regent when Tamlin was not in residence. He held himself like the High Fae that had ridden across two-thirds of Prythian to save them all from the High Queen.

Rhysand had been the final hope, but Lucien had taken the first steps to bring Amarantha down, in the end.

Rhysand’s hand had dug her heart from her chest, but it had been Lucien that made it possible for Rhysand to even realize he _ could.  _ Even now he sometimes wondered how Rhysand’s family had never made any true attempt to save him, but the rest of Prythian distrusted and disliked them, and maybe it had to be someone like Lucien - well-liked throughout the land and well-known as a fae of his word - who could have gotten the access needed to enter all the Courts and gain the pieces to save them at all. 

He just had to remember that he was not going as a lowly messenger, a lesser-born High Fae, last son and disinherited, hunted, unwanted, and reviled by his own family.

No, Lucien Vanserra was going to the Court of Day as some kind of storybook hero, and he had to carry himself that way and hope Helion would grant him an audience. He hoped he looked good enough to keep and hold the High Lord’s attention.

He wasn’t exactly planning to  _ seduce _ Helion, but it helped, with Helion, to give him something he wanted to look at when you were trying to get him to share information. Every High Lord had a weakness to lean on, and Helion’s was simply that he enjoyed pretty things and picturing himself with them.

The last time he’d gone to the Day Court it had been to beg Helion for help saving Tamlin, and Helion had only been able to grant him fair passage through his land, a horse and some water, and his best wishes for good luck. 

Hopefully the High Lord felt a bit more generous today.

_ Be ready to bargain,  _ Ayla hummed.  _ To give him something he wants. _

“What could he possibly want?” Lucien winced at the gentle chime of laughter. “Other than that. Let’s hope for... not that.”

_ Why not? I don’t mind sharing you. _

“Did it ever occur to you that it matters if  _ I  _ mind being shared?” Lucien groaned, but he felt a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “Besides, I have had my share of temperamental High Lords in my bed. Just the one was more than enough.”

_ Which one? _

Lucien snorted. “Which one do you  _ think,  _ Ayla?”

Before she could guess, he winnowed away.

* * *

“The High Lord would be _ thrilled  _ to see you,” The attendant said brightly, clapping her hands together. She was young and bore a striking resemblance to Helion himself, and Lucien raised an eyebrow in thought. Helion had no mate and no wife, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have more children than the average High Fae, and it would make sense to keep them nearby, give them positions of power and influence within his court - ensure a lineage even if he never took a spouse. “We’ve been told to keep an eye out, that you might be coming by to see us. You’re to be escorted  _ immediately  _ to Helion’s receiving room.”

She had the same leonine face as Helion, just slightly softer around the edges and was clothed in what looked like a single sheet of red pleated linen pinned in several places to turn it into a dress, the color striking against her dark skin. When she gestured with one arm for Lucien to follow her, glimmering gold bracelets clinked together up her arm. 

“I, ah, expected to be told I would need to wait for his Lordship to have time for me,” Lucien said, a little uneasily. “Surely he is busy-”

“He will make time for  _ you,  _ Lucien Vanserra.” The attendant all but chirped the words and began to walk down the hall, her heavily braided hair wound with gold thread to add a shimmer against the textured black.

“He will? That’s… reassuring,” Lucien said, and reassured might be the exact opposite of what he felt.

He followed her, feeling sort of helpless to do anything else. Helion never saw  _ anyone  _ without making them wait. ‘Fashionably late and more important than you’ was probably his personal motto. Had he known Lucien was coming? Was that all it was? 

_ We’ve been told to keep an eye out for you. _

Why had Helion expected him - told his court to watch for his visit - if they only received Eris’s invitations today?

The floor, walls, and ceiling were all of a white stone that the light bounced off of. The sun was hot and dry but not uncomfortably so as it shone in through windows in the stone, and there was a slight breeze to take the edge off the sunlight’s weight on his dark green clothing. 

The breeze was entirely contained within the building itself of course, spelled long ago to ensure that everyone was perfectly comfortable, no matter what they wore (or did not wear) within these walls. Lucien wondered if mortal castles were drafty or damp, as they had no magic with which to spell the rain or wind or winter away. You had to imagine they were.

There had never been a chance for him to visit the mortal lands and find out.

Tapestries hung from every available surface in threads of color so brilliant Lucien could hardly stand to look at them - scenes of ancient High Lords of Day building this city from the ground up just after Creation, festivals and holidays. Amarantha’s raids on the great libraries were depicted, the burning buildings woven in such breathtaking detail that Lucien could nearly hear the flickering of the flames. The story of the Day Court told through thread and fiber rather than in books, even though the Day Court had the most immense libraries in the world, even counting the Continent.

Even after Amarantha had looted them and burned so much of what she stole - anything she had taken that did not catch her personal interest had been destroyed, out of sheer spite, out of nothing more than the need to tear down what she could not subjugate. That was irreplaceable historical knowledge lost, and Helion had said at Tarquin’s meeting that the two Day Court prisoners had been exiled for burning twenty books out of Helion’s personal library and then claiming they had no memory of doing so.

With what had transpired since, Lucien wondered if those books had contained information on or references to the Court of Dusk behind all of this. Maybe if someone hunted those prisoners down, someone could get some sort of information out of them. Maybe they’d been working with whoever had taken Rhysand’s brothers… or maybe they genuinely remembered nothing at all.

Or maybe they were just miscreants who burned some books and lied about it when they were caught.

Lucien paused, turning to look out one of the windows. In a great drop below, he could see the beautifully crafted spires and white stone buildings that made up the city, and further than that the swell of the sea. If he crossed to the other side of the palace, he knew, he would look out identical windows and see the snow-capped mountains that ran along the border with Rhysand’s court, separating Day from Night in a mountain range that was totally impassable except by a single path.

Lucien had ridden that path once, trying to sneak into the Night Court in secret, only to find himself whisked away by Azriel’s arms around him, the sense of snow and ice and great cold wings, winnowing back to Rosehall only to fall to the floor in a lump when Azriel misjudged the distance.

He hoped that, whatever they had done to him in Lawless, Azriel would be all right. He wouldn’t exactly call the Shadowsinger his friend, but they had come to understand each other fairly well by the time Azriel had lost Cas and everything had begun to fall apart.

“Messire Vanserra?” The attendant had come to a stop some fifteen feet ahead of him, turning to look at him with her eyebrows furrowed. 

“Ah… my apologies,” He said, jerking himself back to life, hurrying to catch up with her. “I get lost in my memories, sometimes.”

“Don’t we all,” The attendant replied with a bright smile, and began walking again. Lucien tried not to notice the sway of her hips underneath the pleated linen and failed. 

_ Good cover, silvertongue,  _ Ayla trilled in sarcastic song.  _ Keep your eyes to yourself. _

“Well, _ you  _ can keep your… whatever you have that counts as a mouth shut,” Lucien muttered, tightening his grip on her hilt. “I can’t be distracted while we speak to him, this is important.”

_ You do a good enough job distracting yourself, I imagine. Besides, it seems like from your thoughts, it’s Helion himself who might be the distracting one.  _

“Only if he wants to be… and he usually does.”

Helion’s receiving room was oval-shaped and open to the elements, a roof held up only by a ring of smooth, rounded columns around the edges. The sun’s rays lit up the pure white stone and Lucien could see a hint of color shifting within them, the thinnest glimmers of pinks and blues and purples. 

In a room utterly unadorned, the white columns, ceiling, and stone floor did not seem stark, or plain - but rather a form of richness and luxury that needed no ornament, beyond perhaps the High Lord himself.

Helion was not in the large white throne set in the center of the room, where Lucien had expected to see him, but sat instead in a perfectly normal high-backed wooden chair off to the side at a table, with another chair across from him and a bottle of wine set just in the center. He stood quickly, and Lucien stared in dumb shock as the High Lord of Day - who had always,  _ always  _ simply stayed seated and waited to be paid some kind of homage - quickly pushed himself up and walked, barefoot and wearing his own pleated red linen that hung low off his hips, straight to Lucien to take his hand.

He clasped Lucien’s hand between both of his and leaned down to look deeply into his eyes, smiling at him in a flash of perfect white teeth. There was no hint of flirtation in him, no sense that Helion would treat this as a game of seduction. 

Lucien felt like the world had turned upside-down.

“Lucien Vanserra, well  _ met _ ,” Helion Spell-Cleaver said, in his deeply musical, low-pitched voice. Lucien had been here barely five minutes and already he felt knocked entirely off-balance. This… this was not what he had been planning for at  _ all. _

“Ah, Helion - your Lordship - I expected some delay, I’m surprised you found time for me so quickly with no notice given,” Lucien all but stammered like a child, all his careful diplomatic training simply gone at the unfamiliar sight of the High Lord of Day looking… happy to see him.

“I’ve honestly been hoping you would stop by, since the meeting.” Helion’s voice, that low, deep rumble that instantly dwarfed any other sound with effortless projection, was missing its usual lilt of flirtation. His grip was firm and dry, and he did not hold on for even a second longer than necessary.

It was all horribly disconcerting.

“You have?” Lucien blinked. Had he ever been caught so off-guard before? Surely, but in this moment he couldn’t recall a time. “Why?”

Helion paused, looking at him again, something in his expression subtly changing. Then he smiled again, perhaps less vibrantly this time, and turned to his attendant “Jua, you are dismissed,” Helion said with affectionate authority, a man who understood he would be obeyed but who did not like to sound as though he were giving orders.

Jua bowed, just slightly, giving Lucien an impish little smile before she turned to leave the room. Lucien realized for the first time she was  _ also  _ barefoot, and caught the glint of a gold ankle-bracelet as her linen dress shifted.

“I-... ah, your Lordship,” Lucien managed only barely to put his voice back together, wondering at his own hesitation and uncertainty. Had he ever seen Helion with so little sense of seduction in his manner? “Tarquin’s meeting of course went in some… unexpected directions. My lord and I have been taking some time to allow him to recover from what he underwent there. But we have come into some information after receiving invitations to my erstwhile brother’s engagement-”

“Is that what you’re here for?” Helion tilted his head, a bit of black hair falling across his face, and fell back into his chair with boneless regality. “And here I thought…”

“Thought what?” Lucien watched Helion pour him a glass of wine, and took it without thinking. With the long habit of a life born and raised in the Autumn Court, he kept the goblet in hand without taking a drink until he’d seen Helion pour himself a glass and take a drink first. 

“Hm.” Helion looked him over, but the look was different - this was not the head-to-toe raking of eyes that told him Helion was considering what he might look like with that inconvenient shirt and pants puddled on the floor, or the longer smoldering stare that said Helion’s imagination had moved past simply removing his clothes and most likely taken his mental images straight to his own chambers. “Did you not notice, during the meeting? Ah, but you were perhaps distracted by the…” Helion waved his hand lazily in the air. “... excitement.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Lucien asked, managing a smile and the suggestion of laughter in his expression. 

“Better than ‘stabbing agony as your lord bled each of us dry of our very natures’, don’t you think?” Helion waggled his wine goblet in the air a bit in emphasis, then grinned to show it was a joke. “Not that I hold it against him. I have been speaking with Thesan, and I think I begin to understand Tamlin better, having seen what was done to him.”

“You haven’t seen the half of what she did to him,” Lucien said, a little defensively. No one on Prythian but he and Rhysand had seen Tamlin’s worst nights - Lucien waking up to the sound of screaming, Rosehall shaking around him as he raced to get to Tamlin before the nightmare took him too far under, the awful sight of the rose vines overtaking the room around him, Tamlin’s unconscious attempt to build a defense against the dead queen that still infected him. The stammered, breathless descriptions of the ash-wood knife carving into his skin, Tamlin grabbing onto him and holding until he could breathe again.

He wondered what Rhysand saw - he knew the  _ daemati  _ went into Tamlin’s nightmares, pulled Tamlin into his. But when Tamlin had gone back to Rhys and started sleeping in his bed, Lucien’s responsibility to be the one to wake him from nightmares and hold him together had been gladly handed off.

If mates were good for anything, it had to be taking care of each other when everyone else was exhausted from the effort.

“I am happy - and grateful - to acknowledge that,” Helion said, and something of the humor in his voice went away and became more serious and solemn. It was better and worse, at the same time, and Lucien fought the urge to bristle and snap  _ we don’t need your pity. _

He’d sound too much like Tamlin if he did that.

“I merely meant to say that I will admit that I have held some resentment against you lord, and speaking with Thesan made it clearer to me why that was unwise.”

Lucien sat up. “You’ve been speaking with Thesan? But his court is closed-”

They’d been right, when they guessed Thesan’s complete closure of the Court of Dawn would hold true for everyone  _ but  _ Helion. They’d been right.

“His court is closed, yes, but we have a neutral place we often meet,” Helion said with a slight incline of his head - not quite a nod, more a simple acknowledgement Lucien had spoken. “Lucien, there is something I wanted to speak with you about.”

“I had my own reasons for coming,” Lucien said. This was it, he’d been given his opening, the perfect chance to-

“Lucien, I believe you are my son,” Helion said, and all of Lucien’s thoughts and responsibilities simply flew out of his head entirely.

“I beg your pardon, what?” Lucien sat back heavily in his chair with a  _ thump  _ against the wood. Ayla chimed in confusion at his hip, and he dropped his hand to her hilt out of pure instinct. He was aware his mouth was hanging open, but he struggled to close it. “I’m your  _ what?” _

“My son.” Helion paused, taking a sip from his own goblet, his gold eyes glittering as he looked across the table. There was a hint of vulnerability to him Lucien had never once seen the High Lord of Day show. “I believe I am the one who fathered you.”

“B-but my father…” Lucien trailed off.

He had been hated more than his brothers. Beron was a cruel man even to Eris, his clear favorite, but with Lucien his cruelty had been violent on whole new levels. Beron had tempered his abuse with love, enough to make his sons fight for his approval like a pack of animals killing each other over scraps of meat - but Lucien had never even been given that much. He’d been the punching bag, the whipping boy, right up until he’d met Jesminda.

Eris had been the only one to ever treat him like he mattered, before he met her.

“My father hated me,” Lucien said finally, thinking of Beron’s death - Eris tearing the knife across his throat with absolute conviction, he and Eris looking at each other over Beron’s body as the mantle of High Lord settled onto Eris’s shoulders and his scent changed, took on cider and woodsmoke and the way the forests smell when the leaves are falling. “I don’t understand. I  _ knew  _ my father.”

“When your mother stayed with me,” Helion said quietly, “I gave her sanctuary in my court, but there was more to it than that, and you have always known that much.”

“Yes,” Lucien said through numb lips, mind racing through his own life, remembering a thousand of Beron’s littlest cruelties - words that wounded as deeply as knives, the nights he’d forbidden Lucien’s mother from even speaking to her youngest son, the nights he’d insisted Lucien was too grown for nightmares before he had even become a grown male, Eris the only one to find him in his fear and hold him until he calmed down.

Eris sitting beside him during the thunderstorms that frightened him as a child, holding him, because his mother was not allowed to.

“Your father did not get her with child when he imprisoned her after her… forcible return,” Helion said with a perfectly quiet, calm voice. “She was with child when she left me.”

“And you…” His voice trailed off. Ayla sang in the back of his mind, trying to reassure him, to give him a foundation to fall back on. He knew mates could do something like that, with words rather than Ayla’s harmonies, and this might be the closest he would ever get to a mate, but it soothed him nonetheless. “You knew? And you still let her go?”

“I did not  _ let  _ her do anything.” Helion’s face, usually warmed with eternal good humor, went serious and thoughtful. There was a hint of wistfulness there, and Lucien thought with shock,  _ Helion misses my mother. He misses her.  _ The two had never once spoken since her return to Autumn - it had been forbidden, and Lucien knew part of Beron’s threat about it had had something to do with him. Killing him, or locking him up, or something like that. “The bond between mates is stronger than nearly anything else. When he found out she was with me and threatened war on my court, I was willing to fight, for her.”

“But she was not willing to be fought for,” Lucien said, thinking of his jumpy, frightened, wounded mother - wounded deep down within herself, all the fight knocked out of her after centuries of marriage to a male who had nothing but cruelty and violence within himself. How he’d hated her, as a child, for never standing up for him to Beron - hated all of them when Eris was the only one to ever take a beating for him, to take blows meant for the little boy hiding behind him.

Eris was a monster, but he had been the monster that protected Lucien, for a very long time. 

“She was not.” Helion frowned at his goblet, realizing it was empty, and poured himself a bit more. “She was frightened of him, but drawn to him in the way of mates. She left willingly with him, and while I was never certain… she was carrying my child when she went. I have never wanted to know if I have a mate, Lucien, and it’s for that exact reason.”

“I feel the same,” Lucien said with a nod. “I’ve seen what having a mate did to my mother. I… fear the potential of that sort of bond, the damage it can do.”

_ I fear what could happen to Tamlin if Rhysand’s kindness and honesty turns out to have been simply another mask. _

“When the announcement of her carrying a child was made - and when she did not reappear, and Beron kept her locked away for two years after that… well. I made my guesses as to why he would want to hide his child, when normally younglings are something we fae shout to the high heavens, they come so rarely.”

Lucien swallowed against a lump in his throat, heart pounding in his chest

“I had my guesses, but until Tarquin’s meeting, I was never sure. Now I am.”

Lucien looked up, and Helion’s glittering gold eyes met his, the warm amber and the softly whirring metal. Through his metal eye he could see the spells that made up the whole palace, the receiving room, the wrap of gentle glamour that covered over evidence of battles fought and life lived on Helion’s skin, smoothing it to perfection. “What about what happened there made you sure?”

“Lucien.” Helion leaned over, touching the wine bottle - in a moment, a glamour wrapped around it, causing it to look like a bouquet of flowers. “Break the spell I just put on this bottle.”

“What? But I can’t-”

“You can and you did,” Helion said gently. “When Tamlin took from us - what he took from you was-”

“My fire,” Lucien said quickly, but he knew there had been more than that. He had felt his chest twist a second time, the wrenching pain that came with being cut off from magic that ran through his very blood. “He took my fire, and he used it to burn the drapes, to light, to…”

“Undo the spell,” Helion said again. He gestured with one hand.

Lucien held out one hand, focusing on the way his metal eye could see the glamour wrapped like gold threads around the bottle, causing it to reshape and to look other than it was. He pressed his lips together, and thought of the way his chest had burned, as the spells that wrapped Tarquin’s war room had burst, one by one - the glamours fae wore out of petty vanity, the protection spells, even the spell that locked the doors. 

Tamlin had taken the magic in that room apart, and Lucien had thought it was simply using Helion’s power, but…

As he looked, Lucien watched the glamour slide away from the bottle, a burst of invisible magic that puddled like liquid below it, and the wine bottle was simply a bottle again.

Helion smiled, warmly, and reached out to take Lucien’s hand. His grip was different this time - tighter, more uncertain. “You are a spellbreaker, too, Lucien.”

“I am,” Lucien said softly, in nearly a gasp.

_ You broke the spell in Velaris, too,  _ Ayla whispered, and Lucien had forgotten that entirely. He had been so desperate to save Tamlin, as he bled out on the ground and Rhysand’s hand had been on his…

“When Amarantha died,” Lucien said, closing his eyes and speaking slowly as his mouth fought to catch up to his racing thoughts, “I undid the spell that kept Tamlin bound to those metal  _ things  _ that were killing him.”

“You did?” Helion’s voice had simple interest in it, but Lucien sensed something below that, something more fascinated. He didn’t open his eyes. Instead, he thought.

_ The power had raced through him, that alien mortal god’s vengeance pounding alongside his heart, pumping through his veins, but all of it had simply been a boost to the power that had already been there. _

_ A bright and blinding light that had shone out of his very eyes like twin suns, glowed out of his mouth when he opened it to speak, lined his skin so that no one could stand to look right at him.  _

_ “Break the spell, Rhysand,” Lucien had heard his own voice say, looking at the High Lord of Night and seeing a thousand trails of magic, a million shining stars in the night. “Break the spell with me.” _

_ Rhys, terrified to lose his mate, with violet eyes full of tears and pain and grief for the fae male that was not quite dead in his hands, had managed only, “I-” _

_ And Lucien had felt the world around them tremble, the magic that made up Prythian clear to him, and said, “We both love him, for our own reasons.” _

_ Love was the root of saving Tamlin, and love could undo the fabric of the world and remake it all at once. Love could undo his best friend’s death - and love could remake his life. _

_ “‘Let love undo the final prayer.’ It’s the last part of the final riddle. Help me.” _

_ Rhys had nodded, and Lucien had been too lost in himself, in the power that rushed through him. When Rhysand’s hands were laid atop his, Lucien had felt light burst in him, breaking into falling stars, calling to the spell-breaking that had hidden itself in his blood, the song that rang alongside Rhysand’s heart desperately crying for its mate. _

"I broke the spell,” Lucien said out loud, thinking still of the way he’d looked at Tamlin and seen the threads of magic that held him to life even as the darker magic tried to kill him. “Rhys helped me, because I think Tamlin needed to feel his mate there, but… it was my power that broke the spell. I was so distracted, so... focused, I didn't even think about it, it just happened. But there’s no spell-breaking in the Autumn Court.”

“Because you don’t _belong_ to Autumn, Lucien,” Helion said. Lucien opened his eyes to look up at Helion with a whole new perspective on him. “You belong to Day.”

Lucien hesitated, hand still on Ayla, her song still a warm wash of love in his mind. “No,” Lucien said quietly. “I belong to _Spring._ I have Day in me - and Autumn - but I pledged myself to Tamlin and whatever runs in my blood, Helion Spell-Cleaver, Tamlin is my family - and his Court is mine, until my death.”

Helion sat back, looking at him for a long moment. Then he nodded, slowly. “I can understand that. I can appreciate loyalty that runs so deep. If you were to ask - and I understand wholly that you haven’t, and intend to tell you anyway - I would say that Thesan is who I would pledge myself to, in friendship.”

Lucien was lost in his thoughts, in the reality that his blood did not belong to Beron at all, the welcome rush of relief. He couldn’t wait to tell Eris that he was not Vanserra at all - but Spell-Cleaver, Regent of Spring, Fire and Magic and the new green leaves, a mortal god’s sword at his hip and in his mind. He was a storybook hero born from a beaten little boy. Lucien was all of these things, had made of himself something entirely unlike the other fae in Prythian.

He was unique.

He was _ not  _ Beron Vanserra’s son.

But Helion had given him the opening he'd been looking for when he came here, and he couldn't let it go to waste.

“Thesan is why I’m here, actually,” Lucien said thoughtfully, pouring the last of the wine from the bottle into his own glass. “I need your help to get me into the Court of Dawn.”

“Why?” Helion tilted his head. “Thesan wants no visitors, least of all you and Tamlin - no offense meant, of course, he’s simply… worried. A little frightened, if you’ll permit me honesty Thesan himself would bristle at. Thesan sees himself as weak, you know, compared to the rest of us.”

“He does?” Lucien blinked, thinking of the self-contained, supremely self-confident and quiet High Lord of Dawn, who kept no counsel and took no advice but what came from Syvet. Thesan, who watched everyone with knowing eyes and kept to himself. 

Thesan, who had once allowed Tamlin entrance with an injured, healing Lucien, to find an old family friend to make for Lucien a new eye. 

It had been a surprising mercy of his, surprising enough that it had been the talk of the courts for a couple of years afterward, until Amarantha’s masquerade. No one thought Thesan capable of it, or willing to offer it. 

“He does. His power is of healing, which is of use after a battle but largely leaves one weak in the midst of one. So before I offer my assistance in getting you an audience with Thesan, I’m going to need to know exactly why you need to see him.” Helion steepled his fingers, fingertips pressed lightly to his own lips in thought. “What’s going on, Lucien Spellbreaker?”

Lucien grinned at the name -  _ not Vanserra, not Beron’s son, I can’t wait to see Eris’s face when I tell him -  _ and said, “There’s something you don’t know about what happened to Rhysand’s brothers.” ****  
** **

Then he started talking, taking a risk, giving Helion all the information they had - about Tarquin's contact and the information about the Court of Dusk, of the strange fae that had taken Rhysand's brothers captive and held them by _daemati_ control, of the way they believed Thesan to be the target and Rhys and Tamlin to simply be tools or some kind of bait or distraction- and by the time he had finished, Helion was already calling an attendant to winnow to the Court of Dawn and tell Thesan about a meeting he absolutely could _not_ refuse. **  
**

It took Thesan only minutes to reply and tell them to come right away.

Jua had returned with the message, and when she whispered into Helion's ear, his eyes widened and he looked over at Lucien. "Your timing is impeccable, Lucien."

"Why?"

"Because Syvet's long-missing brother has just reappeared in the Court of Dawn begging for sanctuary."


	26. Thesan, Surrounded

Lucien stared around in surprise as they winnowed not into the Dawn Court itself, but somewhere else entirely. It wasn’t Day Court, either - some space between places where the world had the hazy, pinkish light of a new sunrise on one side and the bright and shining blue sky of midday on the other, all of it ringed by a line of vibrant green trees that would put the Spring Court to shame.

They walked a path cut through the woods, a path that had no pebbles or sticks or sharp rocks to stumble on, only a perfect line of soft earth that gave, very slightly beneath Lucien’s boots. On either side the underbrush was a riot of wildflowers, morning glories with their petals open to chase the dawn side of the sunlight, small bushes with tiny sprays of white flowers like a dusting of snow.

He heard rustling through the underbrush on either side, saw the occasional hint of a bit of mottled brown-and-white fur, the scrabble of claws up a tree trunk, but nothing ever fully revealed itself but a few birds and squirrels, perfectly average creatures that you might find in any mortal wood.

Except that Lucien did not feel like mortal squirrels stared that long or that openly.

The trees did not loom or lean over, as they did in certain parts of Spring where the darker things lived. This place was safe, or at least as safe as any fae land could be. Lucien could feel the weight of combined High Lord influences everywhere around him, of Thesan and Helion’s powers intertwined.

 _This is suspiciously pretty,_ Ayla sang darkly at his hip. _Something’s going to fall on your head and bite you, I just know it._

“Hush,” Lucien muttered down to her, then raised his head to look at Helion’s back. “How much further?” He asked, a little uncertainly. There was no way to see - the path twisted and wound through the woods, and while Helion seemed to know exactly where he was going, Lucien had been hopelessly lost within minutes. 

“Not much. Do not leave the path or it will no longer recognize you,” Helion said cheerfully. “You don’t want that. Trust me. This might look nice but Thesan and I made some… somewhat shady deals with the creatures that own these woods to get their agreement to never touch anyone who stays on the earth and never steps off.”

“Why?”

“Oh.” Helion laughed, a brilliant musical sound that seemed not so much to bounce off the trees as to dance around them. “We were still younglings, then. It seemed like a nice place to build a secret fort.”

“A _what?”_

Ayla trilled laughter in the back of his mind, and Lucien could not quite believe the words he was certain he had heard. “You made this when you were _children?”_

“We made the deal then, yes. The things in the woods recognized their High Lords-to-be, although I rather think they got the better end of the deal, taking advantage of our youth. Thesan wasn’t even out of short pants yet, you know.”

Lucien paused. “I genuinely cannot imagine Thesan in short pants.”

Helion grinned, tracing a fingertip along a tree trunk. Lucien could have sworn the tree shook a little in response, the sound of rustling leaves like a sigh of affection. “You may take my word for it, Messire Vanserra, that he was _adorable._ Still, I warn you - stay to the path. Take three steps into the woods and you are given to the woods, and the things that live here are not the type to kill quickly.”

With a soft happy humming song, Helion held out one finger and a bluebird briefly settled there, then flew away. 

“What type are they, then?” Lucien asked, blinking with bafflement as the bluebird landed on a nearby branch. He could swear it was looking at _him._  

It sang, and in the song Lucien heard, _you belong, you belong, you belong to Helion._

 _He belongs to_ me, _flappy,_ Ayla hissed in her own discordant notes, and the bluebird seemed to fix her with a glare and then took off in a flutter of wings into the darkness of the woods.

“Don’t be jealous, Ayla,” Lucien said softly.

“What?” Helion asked, still walking ahead of him.

“Nothing. What happens if you step off the path, really? If you don’t die?”

“No, I never said they don’t die. I said they don’t die _quickly._ The last fae who did not heed my warning took six years, and I am informed she spent all that time in truly terrible pain,” Helion said brightly, picking a thin twiglike branch with a few green leaves off a tree, using magic to twist it into a crown that he put onto his own head. “Give or take.”

 _Told you it was suspicious,_ Ayla sang at Lucien’s side, low menacing slightly sharp notes in his mind.

“Doesn’t matter, we can take whatever’s out there,” Lucien said softly, pitching his voice as low as he could, although it wasn’t like his sword having a sentience all its own was an unknown quantity.

No, Lucien Vanserra and his _very close relationship_ with a mortal-magic sword had become common fodder for gossip in Prythian, and Lucien had found more each day that he did not give a damn.

He was hers, and she was his, and it felt _right._

 _Damn straight we can, my love,_ Ayla trilled, song brightening immediately, and he felt himself relax at the simple certainty that no matter what happened, she was with him until his death. She’d been bound to him permanently from the moment he first fed her with blood, and he had been glad to pledge himself when the mortal vengeance god that had somehow birthed Ayla into the worlds had looked him in the eyes.

_Will you carry my Ayla forever?_

_I have my unsettlingly devoted murder-sword to the end._

The sword sang again in contentment, and he thought she must have some hint of his thoughts. He tightened his grip on the hilt and felt the presence that lived eternally in the back of his mind settle into quiet happiness at his touch, a flutter of a woman beside him, hardly a hint of her transparent presence walking the path.

Helion stepped easily ahead, with the comfortable leonine confidence that Lucien knew well, even if this new version of the High Lord of Day - simply being kind and welcoming and not flirtatious, a Helion that was perhaps, maybe, if he could bring himself to let the knowledge sink in, his _father_ \- was nearly unrecognizable to him.

Lucien found himself suddenly so, so glad he had turned down every single offer the High Lord of Day had ever made.

Neither of them had known, then - Lucien looked like his mother, just like Eris did. There was never any good way anyone could have told the difference in parentage between them beyond maybe Lucien’s skin having a darker shade and a difference to the texture of his hair - and the fire that came so readily to him was pure Autumn - but still he could feel the flip in his stomach at the idea that he had been fielding propositions from his _father_ this whole time.

Helion likely thought it might be a nice way to enjoy the company of someone like the female High Fae he missed, even if he could never see her again.

Still.

He’d been at the mercy of Beron his entire life, and Lucien had been hit by what felt like a wall of realization that he didn’t _have to be._ All the cruelty, all the anger, all the injuries inflicted on a helpless child had all been _unnecessary._

If his mother had told him his father was not Beron Vanserra, he could have claimed sanctuary in Day, and Beron wouldn’t have been able to touch him once his mother and Helion had both admitted to it. He’d have been _safe._ Neither ever had so much as hinted it - and Helion clearly had been fairly certain he must be Beron’s when he showed no sign of the powers of Day.

No one had ever thought to tell Lucien to look inside of himself and see if he even _had them._

Lucien had been raised hiding behind Eris from the violence of his life right up until Eris had stopped standing up for him, too… or so he’d thought. After Jesminda’s death, Eris had pulled every string he knew of to get Lucien out before they could lock him up just like his mother, throw him into the same tower probably, to stay until he gave up, just like her.

Lucien shivered at the idea of being just like his broken, frightened subdued mother. He had not lied when he’d told Tamlin that the obligations and the reminders and the fear that he had lived in knowing he must go as messenger to the Court where he could be killed at any moment had still been preferable to any option he had if he’d remained.

Playing the hero had not come naturally to Eris, but he’d done his absolute best. Lucien knew that - just like he knew now that even if Eris enjoyed to some extent the manipulation he’d done to Tamlin, the fury he’d lit inside of Rhysand, he didn’t actually _want_ to do it.

Eris was not a good man - but he wasn’t outright evil, either. He lived in some space between those characterizations, willing to manipulate and coerce and use Tamlin’s grief to feed his own sadism for all those years after his family’s deaths... but just as willing to risk Beron’s violence coming down on him in order to get Lucien a fast horse and guards who would pretend to be distracted long enough for him to escape.

But still, Lucien’s thoughts circled back again and again and again to one simple piece of helpless anger he could not seem to shake: he could have been a son of Day the _entire fucking time._

He could have worn the linens, lived under the sun, been raised in Helion’s hedonistic but peaceful court of wine and song and wisdom. He could have been a part of Helion’s crowd of ill-gotten children, bastards all and all of them loved.

Part of Lucien wailed a childlike _that’s not fair_ as he walked the path, hearing the trilling of songbirds and the soft steps of Helion ahead of him, still barefoot and in his white linen, occasionally lifting up a hand to touch the velvet softness of a leaf or run dark fingers along the bark of a tree.

“Are you lost in thought, Messire Vanserra?” Helio asked over his shoulder, a momentary hint of real thoughtfulness interrupting his eternal hint of amusement. 

“Always,” Lucien muttered, more to himself than in any real response. “It has been a… strange day, High Lord.”

“Please, none of that. I am Helion, to my children - and my child you must be.”

Did that warm him, or only make him angrier than he was only hearing it _now?_ Did he want to hear these words from Helion as a grown male who had spent centuries considered one of Beron’s two-faced get, or was he unhappy to only hear them ow, when all the damage had been done?

Still, a piece of him - larger perhaps than he’d ever admit to - wavered at the idea of his life being any different than it was. What would he have been to Tamlin, if he’d known and run to the Day Court? Would they have been friends, or simply near-strangers who ran into each other at court events now and then?

Would Tamlin have had anyone by his side at all, if Lucien had been a child of Day instead of a chased-down, hunted, unloved unwanted youngest child riding hell for leather through the woods in the dark of night with the body of his only true love still warm and newly dead, begging for sanctuary from the only High Lord who might be convinced to hide him?

Or would Tamlin have been alone when Amarantha decided she was tired of waiting for him to come to her himself? 

Lucien stopped, lost in his thoughts for a moment, and wondered if Tamlin would even have _fought her_ at all, if he had had to stand alone… Without Lucien, Tamlin would have been utterly isolated down in Spring. A High Lord standing with no one to fight for him but his soldiers, and even they would have quailed before Hybern if Amarantha had convinced the King to give her a few units for to go collect her _property._

Rhysand, the only person other than Lucien Tamlin had ever fully trusted, would have stayed his sworn enemy. Would probably have laughed to see him subjugated to her, sat in his Court of Nightmares and laughed-

No. That was unfair. As awful as Rhysand could be, he was not innately cruel - it was not written deep in his nature like most of the fae assumed. It was a mask he wore, one of many, and Lucien had seen him remove it after a day in his own court, had seen him shuffle tiredly into Tamlin’s study and the two males look at each other - the light of a spring sun reflected on Rhysand’s face, starlight in Tamlin’s. 

It was… immensely irritating.

Lucien had the feeling Rhysand might not have understood _why,_ but that he would have been furious at Amarantha taking Tamlin away, too, and wouldn’t that have been a bizarre rescue to witness, one High Lord swooping in to save his sworn worst enemy, no doubt while insisting to anyone nearby that he still absolutely _hated him._

With Tamlin the only surviving member of his entire family and a Court that saw him as a half-feral war dog whose whims they were subjected to… would that Tamlin simply have taken the slavery Amarantha offered and been willing to call it love? 

Would he have given in to the loss of his own freedom and been grateful that anyone in all the worlds at least _wanted him?_

 _You’re being morbid,_ the sword sang gently, softly, reassuringly at his hip. _None of those times came to pass. Tamlin is free and he was never alone._

“I saw a thousand times, once, but I don’t remember that one. While I’m visiting Day, I should go see the Spirit of the Glass,” Lucien murmured, looking around himself at the dark, dark woods. Morning glories or not, it felt like the trees were watching, _listening,_ cataloging his every move. Which definitely felt exactly like being at home in Spring. It was hard to believe that, beyond these trees and the mountains that made up Day’s shared border with Night, that the world opened up into the grassy long plateau that led to the Glass itself. “Get an answer. She wants stories, and the Cauldron knows I have more stories to give.”

 _Do you really want to know what he would have looked like alone?_ The notes were curious, a little concerned, the soft hint of piano keys that hesitated slightly in thought.

Lucien didn’t have a good reply to Ayla’s question, because the truth was that it felt like taking the bandage off a healing wound - he had only just saved Tamlin and still felt the urge to see other times when he might not have been saved - when Lucien might not have ever known to save him.

Would Rhysand have stepped up, then, some innate connection he couldn’t explain to himself driving him to do reckless, ruthless things to get Tamlin back? Would they have discovered they were mates _then?_

Would Rhysand have been willing to even take any risks, or would he have fumed silently along with the other High Lords and done nothing, just like the High Lords had done nothing to save _him?_

Ahead of him, Helion politely cleared his throat, and Lucien looked up, startled out of his reverie. 

“We’re here, Lucien,” Helion said, gesturing with one arm.

Ahead of them the path suddenly opened to a clearing the size of perhaps twenty men laid head-to-foot. The grass was soft and swayed a little in a breeze Lucien couldn’t feel, and he had the sense that this place, as it appeared, did not actually exist.

That wasn’t exactly uncommon in fae lands, but it didn’t feel like a glamour either. The spell that wound around this space went deeper than any shallow glamour could. It was a spell that had been buried deep in the earth beneath here, a spell that lingered in the deepest cores inside the trees, shivered in every leaf, beat in the heart of every tiny mouse that might ever run through the grass.

The sun shone down in a patch of pinkish yellow warmth, lighting everything with a hint of beautifully warming light. Lucien could hear a brook babbling away somewhere nearby, and morning glories climbed all of the trees, petals open to catch the dawn side of the sunlight, a riot of pinks and blues and reds. 

More flowers trailed along the ground, tiny white sprays of wildflowers, violets and clover in patches. 

Tiny fairy rings of mushrooms were scattered here and there, and Lucien had only ever seen something so storybook once in his life - and that had been a cottage in the woods, with an old woman who called him ‘dearie’ and had a strangely shaped roast in her oven.The mortals never understood how many of their faerie tales were simply scattershot, corrupted profiles of things the fae world actually had. 

In the center of the clearing was an ancient hewn wood table, solid and as certain as life itself, with eight similarly wrought chairs scattered around it. Each chair had a simple opaque goblet set in front of it, with its own dedicated bottle of wine.

“This clearing is a spell?” Lucien asked, looking around with something like awe. Grapevines hung heavy off small trees and Helion reached out to pluck a handful for himself, shrugging and grinning with bright white teeth as he popped one into his mouth. 

“Not if we’re going to get _technical._ It’s part of the deal with the woods. It’s very real, but it’s only here when we need it. Part of the inheritance my heir will receive one day you know.” Helion looked at him thoughtfully. “Whoever that is.”

Lucien looked away from his considering warm gaze. “What is here when you _don’t_ need it?”

Helion grinned. “Bones,” He replied, and then winked, walking towards the table, stepping easily around the fairy rings, morning glories opening when he came close and closing once he had moved beyond them. His skin seemed to shine along its edges, with a brightness that was nearly blinding.

Lucien hurried after him glancing around the idyll that surrounded him, wondering if Helion had been joking or not. Sometimes, with him, it was hard to tell. 

“Thesan!” Helion called out, bright and cheerful. “Thesan, I can feel you lurking! Quit pouting and show me your pretty face! I’ve brought a friend to see you and for once it’s not a friend I expect you to take a tumble with!”

“I haven’t taken a tumble with any of your _friends_ yet,” Thesan’s quiet voice spoke from everywhere and nowhere. “Why you think I would start _now_ is beyond me.”

“I mean, there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?” Helion laughed, and somewhere a bird sang, and Lucien felt like he might fall off the edge of the earth at any moment from how unsettling surreal all of this was. 

They’d been right that Helion and Thesan were closer than anyone really understood - they’d been right, Lucien thought, that Thesan was closing himself off from fear and worry rather than simple dislike of Tamlin or anything else. They’d been _right_ that Eris wasn’t actually the one in control.

Now to see if they were right that Thesan would throw his lot in with them if they explained what they knew. 

“There is no _first time_ for me going to bed with anyone who has ever been to bed with _you,_ Helion,” Thesan said evenly. Lucien could pinpoint the direction of his voice, now, and turned to look at the other side of the clearing.

“That closes off a _lot_ of High Fae,” Helion said brightly. “And frankly more than a few of the lesser fae, too. It’s a safe decision, though, since you’d never be able to please them as well as I do.”

“I would never presume to challenge your area of expertise, Helion,” Thesan said, a quiet humor lacing his voice. There was a path Lucien hadn’t seen before but now saw clear as light, winding behind Thesan into the woods on the Dawn side as the High Lord stepped out from behind a tree.

 _I cannot imagine anyone purposefully wanting to target that male for anything,_ Ayla murmured in the back of his mind. _He’s beautiful and seems pointlessly harmless._

“Healing isn’t harmless,” Lucien said softly. “If you use it wrong.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” Thesan said, smiling slightly. He wore a pink robe that hung loosely off his thin shoulders over a simple shirt and pants, and the robe seemed to shimmer and change when the light hit it, suggesting the change in colors as the sun begins to make its way to the sky. 

The color set off the gold-kissed brown of his skin, and Lucien was somehow utterly unsurprised to see Thesan was wearing a crown made from some flower-strewn branch, just like Helion. _Probably a habit they started as younglings,_ Lucien thought, wondering at the lives Helion and Thesan had lived before Lucien had been born - before even Rhysand had been born. 

Had Thesan ever been anything less than quiet and self-possessed? Had Helion ever been the slightest _bit_ quiet?

Thesan’s hair drifted in its loose way to his chin, and he turned calm, thoughtful upswept rich brown eyes on Lucien, eyes that were equally unsurprised. They were not, however, the usual serenity Lucien was used to.

Thesan looked genuinely worried.

“Good day, Lucien Vanserra of Spring,” Thesan said evenly. “Good day, Lucien’s remarkable sword.” 

 _No one ever says hello to me,_ Ayla sang, notes of excitement skipping up the scale.

“She says hello.” Lucien ducked his head in a sign of respect, without quite bowing - he did not belong to Dawn and this was not an official meeting, after all. 

Thesan considered him for another moment, then looked behind himself. “It’s safe. Bring him out.”

“Did you doubt my ability to keep this space clear for us?” Helion asked, sounding a little offended, wandering to the table and flopping himself loosely into a seat. Lucien could see, in the way he had now, all of the drifts and gentle structures of magic that held this place together. He could have taken it apart, pulled each thread loose until the whole thing unraveled.

“I had to be sure,” Thesan replied quietly, moving to the table himself and sitting across from Helion, so the two High Lords looked directly at one another. “This is a matter of great sensitivity, and officially I have locked myself and my Peregryn in my rooms while I hide from the world and my fears. Syvet, you and Erosyn should come sit.”

From behind the same tree, the twist of the path that had kept them hidden until they were called, the two Peregryns stepped out. The first one Lucien knew immediately - Syvet, Thesan’s longtime lover, stood proud with his wings tucked close against his back, wearing the lightly-colored leather armor that fit him like a second skin but gave him the greatest freedom of movement for flight. 

Beside - and just a little behind - him was a second Peregryn, who looked like him and yet entirely unlike him at the same time.

If Syvet was proud and strong, Erosyn looked weak and worn to shreds. Where Syvet’s hair was so fair it nearly reflected the sunlight and was ruffled and close-cropped these days, Erosyn’s hung in his face. Where Syvet’s eyes were a clear and sparkling light blue, Erosyn’s were darker, an odd mix of sky and deep fathomless dark blue. 

Where Syvet stood up tall and straight, Erosyn was slouching, arms crossed in front of himself, looking warily around the clearing as if he expected to be attacked. 

Syvet looked just slightly over his shoulder. An uncommon gentleness softened the hard lines of his jaw and cheekbones. “Lucien Vanserra is safe,” He said gently. “He is the Regent of the Spring Court.”

The second Peregryn shrugged, and Lucien realized for the first time that he dragged one wing on the ground. The other was tucked nicely against his back just like Syvet’s. Where Syvet wore his armor, Erosyn was wearing a simple shirt and pants and nothing more. 

Lucien felt unease settling deep in his bones, some intuition that rang an alarm lower than conscious thought. Something was _wrong,_ here, and maybe it was just seeing one of the Peregryns so reduced, so decimated.

 _How do they usually look?_ Ayla asked in his mind. _When I last walked the earth before you, we did not see Peregryns._

 _They usually look like Syvet,_ Lucien thought, and hoped enough of the thought got to her that she wouldn’t repeat the question and distract him.

Erosyn looked at Lucien, and his eyes were a dark stormcloud color. “Regent,” He said by way of greeting, and bowed his head deeply. “High Lord Helion.”

“Well met, Erosyn. You have been quite the topic of conversation.” Helion gestured to a seat and Lucien watched him casually unmake the high wooden backs until the chairs now had the gently curved and low-set backs made for the winged fae. “There, Messire Erosyn, that should hold your wing well enough.”

“My gratitude, High Lord,” Erosyn murmured, quiet and nervously tense, dropping into the chair and sighing with relief as the curved back let him rest his no doubt aching shoulder. Lucien studied the hunched shoulders, the way he kept his eyes on the table, one finger tracing meaningless symbols on the ancient wood. 

“Forgive me if this is an impertinent observation,” Helion began, his eyes also carefully watching the injured Peregryn. “Truly, forgive me. Impertinence is my curse and blessing and I am rarely able or willing to hold it back. I must say that you look _remarkably alive_ for someone who has lost the use of a wing and went down in a shipwreck.”

“My death was not intended to happen at sea,” Erosyn said softly. His voice was low and insecure, uncertain. 

Lucien frowned. There was a flicker of something in the back of those eyes - it wasn’t deceit, but something else, and he didn’t know quite what to make of it. Some _awareness,_ some _knowledge_ that the others at the table did not have.

Thesan’s face was a perfect empty canvas, watching Syvet and Erosyn. Lucien caught that he was leaning very slightly towards his longtime Peregryn lover - who he had once spent years keeping in hiding, moving from place to place in the dark of night, to ensure Amarantha never found him.

What was it like for Syvet, Lucien wondered, to live for _decades_ wrapped up in hiding, in darkness, when the Peregryns were always meant to fly with the sun? All the High Lords - all the _fae_ in Prythian - had undergone something terrible at Amarantha’s hands, and yet everyone simply went back to their lives, as though nothing had happened at all.

But in the lines of Thesan’s face and in his quiet brown eyes, Lucien thought he saw some deeper worry than he was willing to show. 

No one walks away from the aftermath of Amarantha without damage. Not the High Lords - not their Courts - not their lovers…

Not Rhysand.

Not Tamlin.

“Yes, as I recall, the unfortunately very deceased captain was _quite upset_ about that,” Helion said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table, fingers templed beneath his chin. “Or at least convinced that whoever he sent the message to would be.” That deceptively lazy leonine look was now wholly focused on Erosyn. Lucien wondered if the Peregryn was smart enough to know he was being analyzed, or if all he saw was the hint of seduction, of invitation, that was an eternal part of Helion’s expressions.

Syvet cleared his throat. “We are not here to discuss the circumstances of his survival.”

_Even if Erosyn doesn’t realize he’s being read like a book, Syvet does._

“Why not?” Lucien kept his voice casual. “His existence was discussed at length in the meeting. You and Thesan had… a conflict, of sorts, over it.”

 _Conflict?_ Ayla laughed, a sparkling run of notes, and Lucien felt his hand go instinctively to her hilt. _Is that what we’re calling it?_

“I did not know of him, then,” Thesan said, those rich brown eyes sweeping through Lucien as though he were tilling the earth, opening up the rocks and worms and bringing hidden things to the morning light for closer inspection. “I only knew of a Peregryn soldier. I did not know who he was to my Syvet.”

Syvet, sitting next to Thesan, relaxed a little, and there was a hint of a smile across his lips, for only a moment. His hand slid to the side, and Thesan took it in his own.

Lucien wondered if they just sat around in silence, in the Dawn Court, being lovingly _quiet_ at each other. He was starting to appreciate Tamlin and Rhys’s nonstop fake-fight flirting as at least being slightly _entertaining._

“What is he to Syvet, Thesan?” Helion asked without looking away from Erosyn for a moment. Lucien felt the unease in him growing, and could not quite place its source. Something seemed wrong about this, all of it, but other than the obvious _of course something is wrong, a court that doesn’t exist is trying to do something that involves driving Tamlin barking mad with my older brother pulling his strings,_ he just could not place it. 

“He is Syvet’s younger brother.” Thesan’s voice was even, but there was a flicker of his eyes to Syvet, who looked carefully away, coloring slightly. Lucien was surprised to discover the Peregryns blushed a faint cool bluish-purple rather than a proper red. “I was recently informed of his existence. I felt it best to bring him with us to this meeting, as he has only just arrived and his safety cannot be guaranteed if I am not with him.”

“He killed several of his own lieutenants,” Syvet said softly. “Twelve… almost thirteen years ago. Their families are have mentioned concern that he may continue to constitute a risk.”

Lucien looked back at Erosyn, who looked at his brother with a sweet and soft adoration. He looked every inch the perfect example of a longtime captive returned home to heal, finding his way back to his family and friends.

His eyes dropped to Erosyn’s wrists, heavily scarred in a way Lucien recognized immediately. When he looked back up, Erosyn’s calm stormy-colored eyes were on his. There was that flicker again, behind them, almost a hint of a darker blue. 

Lucien understood, then, that as much as he was watching the injured Peregryn, the Peregryn was watching him right back. 

“Does he?” One of Helion’s eyebrows arched, a perfectly controlled motion. 

 _Yes,_ Lucien thought, and felt Ayla’s low agreement in his mind. _Yes, that fae constitutes a risk. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but… something is wrong and if I were Syvet, I would not think Thesan was safe even in a closed Court._

“No more than any other fae,” Thesan said with a casual, careless shrug of his shoulders. He and Helion shared some long look, some innate communication built by centuries of knowing each other and then Helion simply nodded. 

“Why did he kill them? Those other lieutenants?” Helion’s tone was still one of perfect carelessness, as though he were remarking on the weather and not a dozen deaths, ruined families, destroyed lives. 

Odd to be a High Lord, Lucien thought, and consider yourself to have greater concerns than lost lives, to not even really note them as having enough value to pause in conversation to recognize that they were gone. 

“Her Majesty,” Thesan said, with uncommon sarcasm and cynicism, “the High Queen of Prythian, Amarantha. He fell under the sway of her _daemati.”_

Erosyn closed his eyes, as if wincing at the memory, and looked down and to the side. His hands worried at each other, and there was a hint of deep grief and regret written across his expression.

It was all too fucking perfect a picture, somehow.

“And where was he after that?” Helion asked, picking at a perfectly rounded fingernail. 

“My lord,” Syvet said, sitting up straight, angling himself as though he would move between his brother and the High Lord of Day. “I don’t see how that’s relevant, since you said this conversation would be about _Messire Vanserra’s_ information for Thesan-”

“Anything I deem relevant to me _becomes_ relevant, Syv,” Helion replied, voice just slightly sharper than it had been before. “You know that. And Lucien won’t be sharing his information until I feel fully informed myself.”

Lucien caught the flicker of a look between Thesan and Helion. Lucien had always been _good_ with people, it was one of the reasons Tamlin had trusted him for so long as his messenger and second. He could read people where Tamlin couldn’t, could talk them down from anger or sadness, could find the way through their armor - find the chink that no one else saw - and work his way in.

And in this moment, he looked through the slightest crack between Thesan and Helion and thought, _something_ is _wrong, and both of them know it, and they don’t want Syvet or Erosyn to realize they do._

“Fine.” Syvet crossed his arms in front of himself, leaning slightly back into the low back of the chair, letting his wings rest even more heavily in the gently arch designed to hold them. Helion poured everyone a glass of wine from a bottle Lucien was fairly sure hadn’t been there a moment ago. Lucien watched Helion carefully drink from the glass first, his eyes sparkling with good humor right in Lucien’s direction. 

“I was, um.” Erosyn sipped from his glass nervously. “I was removed from Amarantha’s prisons after some-... interrogation-... and put into the service of… of…”

Thesan leaned back in his seat. “The Court of Dusk,” He finished, speaking flatly. 

Lucien sat up straight so quickly he nearly spilled his wine as it sloshed around the inside of the glass. “Yes!”

 _Careful, lover,_ Ayla murmured. _Don’t give away too much - we’re missing some piece here and we need to know what it is before we tell everything we know._

“The… that’s what I’ve come to talk to you about. We’ve received invitations to Eris’s engagement gala-”

“Yes, haven’t we all,” Helion drawled. “Honestly, I don’t understand why Night and Autumn both insist on this useless ‘marrying for legitimate heirs’ nonsense when it’s clear to one and _all_ that Eris hasn’t been interested in females one day in his entire life-”

“Spring does it, too,” Lucien pointed out.

“Not anymore they don’t,” Helion said, grinning. “Or if they do, Tamlin should probably start asking Rhysand to wear skirts.”

“Who’s to say he hasn’t already?” Lucien jabbed back, without even batting an eyelash.

Helion chuckled. “See, Messire Vanserra, your parentage should probably have been more obvious to us all a long time ago.” When Lucien looked uneasily at the others, Helion shook his head. “Thesan knew my suspicions, Lucien. He is no doubt unsurprised that we have proven it.”

“Technically, I was the first one to _suggest_ it,” Thesan spoke primly. “It seemed obvious to me. _Only_ to me, granted… Although I imagine Beron would not have locked her up for so long if he wasn’t at least mostly certain of it himself.”

“Lucien.” Something dreamy and wistful came into Helion’s expression. “Do you think your darling mother will attend Eris’s party? She must, right? As the mother of the groom-to-be? If so, do you believe her mourning period for Beron has properly ended-”

“Not the time,” Thesan said warningly. “And in _terribly poor taste_.”

“You _always_ say it’s not the time and in poor taste,” Helion pouted.

“I’ve known you for centuries, Nonny, and it has _never been_ the time to ask a man if his _mother_ will be up for reuniting with her old flame. And it will _always_ be in poor taste.” Thesan winced, slightly, an uncharacteristic sign of embarrassment. “My apologies, Lucien, for a truly awful pun.”

“Helion’s are no doubt worse,” Lucien offered, and caught a smile on Thesan’s face that light up the entire clearing in return. “But, begging all pardons, did you just call the High Lord of Day _Nonny?”_

Helion laughed brightly, a deep and warm sound that was like the sun shining on a grassland, warming the earth. His own light shone from one side of the clearing. “You will learn that Thesan and I keep a great many memories between us, Lucien. My old nickname being just one of them.”

“Did you… did you call _him_ anything like that, my lord?” Lucien couldn’t help himself. It really wasn’t that important - and the _something is wrong_ in his thoughts grew louder every single second - but he couldn’t keep the question back.

“Thessie,” Helion said smugly. “Thessie and Nonny, joined at the hip in our short pants. Our mothers thought we were _adorable._ I believe mine had a portrait painted I’ve got shoved in a room somewhere in my palace…”

“If we hadn’t both been heirs, it’s likely they might have expected us to marry,” Thesan said, sipping his own wine, eyes sparkling with a good humor Lucien had never seen in them before. 

 _Something he saves for Syvet and Helion alone,_ Lucien thought. _But I’m included in it, now._

“I cannot imagine the two of you wed,” Lucien offered. “At least, not without one of you burning the palace down on top of the other.”

“Fifty-three years ago, I would have said the same about _your_ High Lord and Rhysand,” Thesan pointed out. “And yet their domestic bliss is… unrelenting now.”

“Yes, but fifty-three years ago both of them actually _would_ have burned a house down to kill the other,” Lucien snorted.

Thesan was silent for a beat. “Would they have?” He asked, with careful airiness. Lucien blinked and stared at him, and caught Erosyn turning to look more closely at Thesan, too. For a second - just a moment, and Lucien might have imagined it - it looked like the broken, beaten-down captive simply slid away from Erosyn’s face, replaced by calculating, analytical coldness and distilled, ancient hatred.

 _Eris looked like that,_ Lucien thought, sitting up slightly, cold splashing down his spine, filling his veins with ice. _In Tarquin’s meeting, when his eyes turned blue._

“May I ask a question, Syvet?” His own voice came out perfectly calm and curious, and he knew his expression mirrored the carelessness. He was Autumn Court, after all - even if Beron was not his true father, he had been raised learning to hide his real feelings since he could barely walk, since the first day Beron had let his mother bring her toddler son out of the tower she’d been locked in and shown him the sun, and the world outside, and his big brothers - five of them already bristling with loathing about his existence, only Eris dropping into a crouch to hold him. Only Eris had ever gone into the tower to see him when he was an infant, when he was learning to walk.

Lucien didn’t remember his first day out of the tower - but Eris did.

“Of course,” Syvet replied, squeezing Thesan’s hand lightly. They had had to hide for so long, Lucien thought, sneaking meetings in the dark of night, erasing Syvet from Thesan’s court as thoroughly as possible. 

Otherwise, he’d likely look just like Erosyn looked now.

Probably would have been cellmates with Cas, once she got ahold of the Illyrian general in the end. She’d have loved that, Lucien thought - a Peregryn chained to one side of her throne, an Illyrian to the other. She’d always thought winged fae little more than glorified songbirds. 

“Why did you lie to Thesan about your brother?”

Erosyn looked down at his feet, biting on his lower lip. The picture of helpless sadness - but Lucien had seen his face when he looked at Thesan, and saw it for the act it was. 

_I have to get Thesan alone. Erosyn is here because he doesn’t want anyone to get Thesan alone. And…_

“Because,” Syvet began, slowly. He looked sidelong at Thesan, who nodded slowly, then back at Lucien. “Because Erosyn is _daemati._ In the Dawn Court, that’s…”

“A crime,” Thesan said smoothly. “The Dawn Court mislikes the _daemati_ and Erosyn would have been sent to the Night Court at best, exiled at worst. Syvet has explained to me that he and Erosyn have always hidden what he is to protect him. Erosyn has been being held by the Court of Dusk, they intended to use his _daemati_ power. Syvet tells me that Erosyn did not break.”

Syvet glanced at Erosyn, and his face relaxed a little into that expression of gentle brotherly affection. “It takes great strength to withstand torture,” He said softly, and Erosyn flushed again, in a kind of pride. 

Lucien swallowed, hard. 

_Oh, he broke all right._

_Syvet broke, too, I'll bet - and he just doesn't know it._

“Will you be attending Eris’s party, Thesan? With Syvet?” His own words come out as though someone else were speaking them, his mind racing. He needs to get this information back to Tamlin and Rhysand. They need to make a plan. They need to know, to know that they’re not looking at an attack from one angle alone.

“Of course I will. It’s a courtwide event. Most of all of our courts will be there.” Thesan spoke quietly, playing with the rim of his wine goblet. “We haven’t had an event like that since Amarantha’s masquerade, really. The Courts are all looking forward to getting back to normal.”

“I believe you will be in danger at the party, Thesan.”

Thesan’s eyes raised to his, and flickered just slightly to the side, at his Peregryn lover, then back to Lucien, who read the message very well.

_I am already in danger here._

“Was it your idea to close your Court, Thesan?” Lucien asked, and again the flicker in Thesan’s eyes. This time, Lucien felt Helion tense just slightly beside him as well. 

He knew how to read people - High Fae and lesser and mortal alike, Lucien was an excellent liar, and as good at reading the lies of others as he was at telling his own. He’d always been good at it, it had come instinctively to him, a trait he and Eris shared. 

“No,” Thesan said finally. “It was Syvet’s.”

“After Tarquin’s meeting, I was worried such a thing might happen again,” Syvet said, calmly serious, no sign in him of anyone other than the soft-spoken, severe-natured Peregryn that stood firmly and loyally by Thesan’s side, “I realized how much danger we are in if Tamlin should lose control like that again. It made sense to close up the Court, to keep Thesan safe.”

“And you say Erosyn just appeared?”

“Only today,” Erosyn volunteered in his soft, worried voice. “I found a way back through, um, going through Under the Mountain, I-” His voice trailed off. “I made it back out through the tunnels to Dawn, so I could beg for sanctuary, I’m running from them-... they’re coming, Messire Vanserra - they intend to attack at the gala - and I escaped so I could warn you.”

_Erosyn is daemati, Syvet is the one to close up the Court long before Erosyn showed up, Thesan knows something is wrong and doesn’t feel safe communicating it…_

Lucien sighed, trying to think.

Erosyn sat up slightly, looking at Lucien. “I escaped because of your friend,” He said quietly.

“My friend?” Lucien blinked, utterly baffled.

_He’s lying. Whatever he’s about to say, he’s fucking lying, Lucien Vanserra, and don’t forget it. Don’t let him pull you away from this, you’ve got the loose thread in your hand, it’s time to unravel it._

_I have to tell Tamlin about this._

_I have to tell Tamlin that-_

“Azriel,” Erosyn said. 

Lucien sat back against the back of his chair with a heavy _thump_ , catching Helion’s eyes on him, Thesan’s serious expression dancing back and forth between everyone. Syvet’s lips thinned slightly, his grip on Thesan’s hand tightening.

“Azriel? Az helped you escape? But we heard he doesn’t speak-” 

_Fucking amateur, why would you give away knowing anything at all? Fucking idiot, Lucien Vanserra, how could you let him know, how could you be so surprised, how-_

“He doesn’t,” Erosyn said as though he hadn’t noticed, but Lucien had seen that flicker of darker color in his eyes again. This wasn’t a meeting between two High Lords and Lucien. This was Erosyn feeling out the knowledge they all had about what was happening. This was Erosyn keeping an eye on Thesan, keeping him from being alone with anyone to share whatever thoughts he genuinely had. 

This was Erosyn, and… Lucien’s eyes drifted to Syvet again.

When the Peregryn looked back at him, he saw - for just a second - the flicker of darker color, there, too. Saw the hint of fear and worry on Thesan’s when he looked at him, the way his grip was tight on Syvet’s hand.

_Thesan, can you trust anyone in your Court now? Or are you totally alone there?_

“General Cassian is the new favorite of the Court of Dusk’s lord,” Erosyn said with a hint of disgust, of hatred, of… jealousy. “I was left alone and uncontrolled long enough. Azriel helped me find the way to Under the Mountain.”

“All tunnels lead Under the Mountain, eventually,” Helion murmured. “That’s always been known. The center of Creation… made by the Cauldron, by the Mother’s Hands herself…”

“Right.”

“When you say he’s the new favorite…” Lucien’s voice trailed off, thinking of the way Tamlin’s eyes had gone dark and dead when he sat in Amarantha’s throne room, in his black throne next to her much larger one, wearing the small circlet on his head to denote him her consort, as if anyone in the room had been fooled as to what he really was.

“I mean that General Cassian is whoever the Lord of Dusk wants him to be, now,” Erosyn said flatly. “And will stay that way, unless something is done to stop him.”

“So we stop him,” Lucien said with a shrug, his mind racing. “At Eris’s party.”

“And how will we do that, exactly?” Erosyn asked, just a little too sharply. Lucien fought back a smile - not as good a liar as Lucien himself, in the end.

Oh, Rhys was going to be _furious_ about this. Furious, and afraid for his brother and best friend.

And if the Court of Dusk was trying _this_ as a tactic, they simply did not understand that Rhysand’s fear had always been more dangerous than his fury. Amarantha had pulled out Azriel’s wing, or nearly so, and Rhysand had broken her control with his fear for his brother, his grief at Tamlin’s loss. 

Now the Court of Dusk wanted to use Cas as bait? No, not bait - a taunt. This was meant for Lucien to take back to Rhysand, to taunt him about what had happened to Cas, that Cas was even more a prisoner now than he had been chained to Amarantha's throne. That Rhysand had sent them into exile and Cas had lost even the sanctity of owning his own thoughts as a result.

Maybe. Unless Erosyn was lying.

But still, to bring this up like this, use it as a taunt, to let Lucien  _know about it_ ahead of time?

 _Whoever you are, you jackass, you’re arrogant._ Lucien kept his expression serious, giving not a hint of the direction of his thoughts away. _And that arrogance is going to be how we rip you the fuck apart, keep safe the Lord of Dawn, and get our friends back._

“I don’t know yet,” Lucien said smoothly. “We’re working on the plan. What is the name of your… of the lord of the Court of Dusk? Names have power, you know. Tell me his name.”

“Ausro,” Erosyn said, softly, almost reverently. “His name is Ausro.”

“Well, then.” Lucien looked Erosyn right in the eyes. “Let’s plan to kill an Ausro.”

_And figure out how I can use the information about Cas to our advantage._

_I need to talk to Eris._

_Soon._

Now that he was looking for it, he could see the unease in Thesan's posture and the calculated thoughtfulness in Helion.  When he looked at Erosyn again, the Peregryn was hunched over, lighter-colored eyes focused back on his hands, on the ground, on anything but Lucien. 

_I see you in there, you bastard._

_We took down an evil queen._

_We can take you, too._

_You want me to know that Erosyn is being used - and you want me to use him, to focus on him, to let you know I see it. So I'm going to do the opposite._

Lucien sat up and leaned forward, putting perfect compassion onto his face. "It's going to be all right," He said soothingly. "We'll rescue Cas and we'll make sure you're safe, Messire Erosyn. I promise."

Erosyn smiled, faintly, at him.

Lucien thought,  _Fooled you._


End file.
